


You're the Blood, I'm the Seed

by orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-02-02 21:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 95,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12734838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What if the Ghost of Human Kindness had actually gotten away with abducting Tweek and kept him locked away for nearly ten years?





	1. Craig

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not quite sure how I feel about this. I wrote it about two weeks ago but didn't love it but I don't know, figured I'd see. 
> 
> Messing with the time here a bit as the abduction episode obviously happened before Tweek x Craig. I believe they were eight in that episode and ten in Tweek x Craig so I rounded between at 9.

Tweek Tweak was nine when he disappeared and seventeen when he was found. Craig Tucker had been nine as well that night in February, the last time he had seen the smaller boy, but was eighteen when Tweek returned. For some reason that felt wrong.

Their birthdays were only a few weeks apart so their age difference had always been minuscule in a way that felt predestined, as if they weren't made to be on this planet without the other but Tweek had just gotten sidetracked along the way as he is often does and arrived a bit late. Those few weeks in between had always felt like some weird no man's land for Craig. He was the oldest of all his friends and until Tweek's birthday hit he always felt like he should be more mature and responsible than the rest of them due to the age difference. Like some of his childhood was slipping away, year by year, day by day.

The fact Tweek reappeared in that no man's land felt like a bad omen, another reminder of the differences their lives had taken. Craig was eighteen, Tweek was seventeen. Craig had black hair, Tweek had blond. Craig earned straight B's in school, Tweek was forcefully removed from the education system in fourth grade.

Tweek had been Craig's first, and currently only, boyfriend when he had simply vanished without a trace. Well, not completely without a trace. They had found his thermos in the bushes halfway between the Tweak and Tucker households. At first nobody had been too worried, assuming something had scared the paranoid boy off his normal track. There had been that time he had hidden in the woods for three straight days because he was absolutely convinced that the deax-eyed Elf on the Shelf in their homeroom was out to get him. Random disappearances were not that uncalled for in this situation.

But Craig had known better. He knew to be worried from that first morning his boyfriend hadn't met him for their normal walk to school. Tweek might not have been the most stable boy in the world. He might have run from anything and everything. But the thing is back then, when he ran, he had taken to running towards Craig.

The way he had finally learned what had happened to Tweek all those years ago had been wrong as well. Halloween night, another evening spent inside watching old 80's horror slasher movies with his mom. His father had called it an early night, Tricia had gone out to some sleepover at one of her friend's houses, and all of Craig's friends were at a party at Token's house which he wasn't up for. He was never up for parties. His mother had gotten up to get another bowl of kettle corn when a commercial for the eleven o'clock news aired.

“ _Local boy missing for eight years found in home of convicted kidnapper. More at eleven._ ”

Craig resisted the urge to feel any hope, despite the beating in his throat that inevitably made an appearance. He had learned to stop hoping years ago.

But he picked up his phone anyway and did a quick search on Tweek's name. Usually, all the results brought up were an abandoned Facebook account and some old articles about his disappearance.

This time a link under the news section popped up with a time stamp of only 53 minutes ago.

“ _South Park boy finally found after eight years_.”

His name wasn't in the headline, it must've been in the article itself, but beneath the link was that same old school photo of Tweek that had been posted on every single telephone pole and billboard in town for months after his disappearance.

Craig couldn't breathe. He was afraid to click the link. Was he dead? Surely they would have put the word “alive” in the headline if not? Did they find his grave?

His mother returned with both the popcorn and a refill of cider for her son but he didn't see her. Didn't notice her holding out the glass to him, waiting for him to take it.

He looked haunted. She noticed that immediately. He had gone pale, his eyes were wide, and his lips quivered. Considering the date her first thought was that her son had seen a ghost.

“Craig?” she had asked cautiously.

“Mom,” he squeaked, his throat closing as he stared at his phone, reading but not absorbing. Not really. Not enough to understand the full story.

But enough to spot certain words. “Living.” “Malnourished.” “Mute.”

“What's wrong?” Her second thought, after the ghost, had went to the Tweak boy, which in reality was the same thing. She had been waiting for years for the hammer to fall. For them to find the body. For her only son's heart to finally shatter. She had hoped he would move on before that, find another boy to live for, but that had been futile. Tweek quite possibly may have been Craig's soulmate and one true love.

He holds his phone out to her and the first thing she spots is the picture on the top of a skinny teenage boy trying to hide his face behind his hands but God, if she wouldn't recognize that yellow blond hair anywhere.

“They, they found him alive?”

* * *

 

Craig tried to see Tweek first thing the next morning but when he arrived at the Tweak household he was met with only a locked door.

“She's at the hospital with her son,” one of the neighbors had told him as he cleaned up splattered pumpkin rind off his doorstep. “You're that little boy who used to play with him back when, right?”

“Yeah,” Craig says. He feels like he should say something else but he doesn't know what so he just turns and heads back to his house. He calls the landline and leaves a few awkward, stunted messages, and both thanks and curses the fact that anybody even still uses a landline.

In the end it's Tweek's mom who calls him up, nearly two weeks later.

“We think he may be ready for visitors,” she explains. “It's only been family so far but we figured you'd be the best option on branching out.”

“I'll be right over,” he says. He contemplates wearing his old chullo hat for nostalgia's sake but feels foolish once he thinks about it. He hasn't worn that thing since he was twelve and it probably smells like musty old mothballs from the closet.

The house feels oddly still when Mrs. Tweak lets him in. The place smells like it always did, of coffee and baked goods, but it's so silent. There had usually been a radio or television on somewhere in the house but all he hears is the sound of another pot of coffee brewing from somewhere in the kitchen.

Tweek is sitting on the couch. He looks simultaneously exactly like his old friend and like a stranger. He had seen pictures of him on the news, knew what he looked like, but somehow Craig was still imagining his little nine-year-old boyfriend to be sitting on the couch.

His hair is long. Very long. It looks uncombed and tangled and Craig wouldn't be surprised if it hadn't been cut in the last eight years.

He looks up when Craig approaches but doesn't smile or stand up to greet him. He looks confused.

“Tweek, Craig has come to visit with you.”

The confusion fades quickly from his face, replaced with shock. His eyes skim quickly up and down over the older boy. Craig can't help but note how pale he looks. Much paler than the boy from his memories. With bruised looking eyes.

He isn't twitching.

“I, I didn't recognize you,” he confesses. His voice is deeper and calmer than it had been in youth but something about the inflection remains. Something just slightly strained. He stands and Craig notices how his hand twitches for a moment, as if he's about to extend it for a handshake, but he lets it go limp by his side instead. “You got, you got really tall.”

The papers had claimed he was mute. Craig was glad to see that wasn't the case after all.

“Yeah, uh, you remember how tall my parents are,” he shrugs, as if feeling guilty for changing over the last eight years. Like he was being inconsiderate in his six foot one glory. He should've stayed the same for Tweek, so he would recognize him when he finally returned, and by changing his body had given up on that prospect. “You've, um, grown too.”

And he had but not nearly as much as he should've. If Craig had to guess he'd say Tweek only stood at about five four or five five, not counting his hair. The only other boy their age that Craig knew who was that short was Butters but while Butters had a certain softness to him Tweek appeared bony, emaciated. The bones on his face stand out harshly. Craig isn't sure why that surprises him so. He had read the articles.

Malnourished, kept on a strict diet by the pedophile who had done his best to keep him small so as to quench his voracious appetite for underage boys. Until the predator had lost interest in him entirely and decided to abduct another boy on Halloween night. A boy who had screamed and been heard.

Craig doesn't know what to say to his ex-boyfriend. Or is he his ex? They never broke up. Do relationships have a statute of limitations? He can't ask him that. He can't ask him how he's been. He isn't even sure if he can sit down next to him once the blond retakes his seat. Tweek had been raped repeatedly over nearly a decade, how would he feel about having somebody close to him? He hadn't even been able to shake his hand.

“Sorry I didn't call,” Tweek says and the stillness of his voice is heartbreaking. This isn't how his Tweek had talked. Not this quietly. Not this calmly. His Tweek screeched. “I heard your message. I've just been staying in. The doctors say my eyes are weak. The sun hurts them when I go outside.”

“No problem,” Craig mutters, feeling stupid immediately because yes, the fact Tweek has weak eyes from being kept in a tiny, dimly lit basement, is most definitely a problem.

Mrs. Tweak recognizes the awkwardness in the room.

“Do you boys want to do a puzzle?” she suggests. “I picked up a few more this afternoon.”

A few more?

“Sure mom,” Tweek responds, his voice resigned.

They go into the kitchen so they can sit at the large, round table in there. Tweek's mother turns off the overhead light and turns on a lamp that's on the end of the counter. It doesn't fit. There was never a lamp there before and it clashes with the rest of the decor. It's an eyesore. Mrs. Tweak brings them cups of coffee and Tweek curls his fingers around his mug, but he doesn't drink from it. He just holds it as if it were a blankie or stuffed animal. A comfort object.

The puzzle is an underwater seascape. It's full of sea turtles and dolphins and coral and bubbles. Tweek seems oddly competent at them. He has the border of the puzzle complete before Craig can even fish out all the orange pieces of a small octopus to one side.

“Ghost used to bring me puzzles,” he says softly, not looking up from the puzzle. The wording confuses Craig for a moment until he realizes he means Frederick Johnson, his abductor, who had dressed up as the Ghost of Human Kindness that night he had taken Tweek. Craig wonders if the other boy had known the man's real name. Tweek offers no further information besides the fact and Craig can't ask him for anymore so he talks instead.

He talks about the other kids at school. He tells him about Clyde and Bebe's relationship, which is rocky at the best of times, and how Clyde sobs like a bitch every time Bebe breaks up with him. He tells him about Token's band and how they sometimes get gigs in Denver on the weekend. He doesn't tell him about Jimmy's death and hopes maybe Tweek had forgotten Jimmy ever existed. He tells him about Stan and Kyle coming out together and how Kyle is still claiming some weird asexual demisexual bullshit while Stan is still apparently straight just with Kyle as an exception, because those dicks can never just be non-complicated. He doesn't tell him about losing his virginity to Kyle their sophomore year before the gay wads had finally gotten together. He tells him about Cartman and Butter's three week whirlwind relationship that had ended with Butters being sent off to a private school somewhere in Utah and how there were rumors it was a Mormon school.

Craig isn't sure Tweek is hearing any of it before he asks “What about Kenny?”

“He dropped out when he turned sixteen,” Craig says, “He's working at a garbage dump in Denver. I've been to his apartment once. It's a shithole but I guess he's just glad to be out of his parent's house. He's decorated it with old furniture people drop off at the dump.”

Tweek nods but doesn't ask anything else on the subject. “And Wendy?”  
“Class president. Neck in neck with Kyle for valedictorian. They're both going to Berkeley in the fall. I think Stan's planning on following them out there so they can all share an apartment.”

“Right,” Tweek's voice drops. “College. Yeah, I guess you'll all be going off soon.”

“I've applied to a few places,” Craig says. “But I haven't heard back yet. State schools. I can't afford private or out of state.”

Tweek shrugs and starts playing with the bracelet on his wrist. It's a medical bracelet from the hospital, starting to fray. Craig wonders how long he's been wearing it and why he hasn't taken it off yet.

“I'm getting kind of tired,” Tweek says finally. “I think I might go take a nap.”

Old Craig would have offered to join him. They had enjoyed after school naps quite often before everything went to shit, it being really the only time two nine year old boys could really get away with cuddling each other without feeling super awkward about it.

New Craig recognized this comment as a brush off. Tweek wanted him to leave.

“Okay,” he said, reaching back to scratch at the hair behind his right ear. “But we didn't get to finish the puzzle?”

“You can come over after class tomorrow,” Tweek suggests. “I'll leave it here.”

Craig likes that idea.

“Alright then, I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

“I'll, I'll bake some cupcakes,” Tweek says, giving him a very small and very fake smile. “You always liked my cupcakes, I think?”

“Yeah, I did,” Craig agrees, then corrects himself. “I do.”

“Make sure to come then, or I'll be stuck with a bunch of cupcakes and nothing to do with them.”

Like Craig would pass up the opportunity. He didn't give a shit about cupcakes but Tweek was back, or at least some form of the boy he used to know, and he wasn't losing him again.


	2. Tweek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably trigger warnings. Just, you know, read with caution

He awakes to the familiar sound of squeaking metal and creaking doors and for a moment he forgets where he is. For a moment, a second, a half a second maybe, he waits for Ghost to enter the room, to greet him with his cooing “Good morning baby” and feel the dip of the bed. And that half a second, that quarter a second, feels like hours.

But it's not Ghost. It's his mother, whispering at him that it's time to get up. But that squeaking metal is still there and it is the exact same metallic disturbance as had been in the basement.

His teddy bear hamsters. Hansel and Gretel. He hadn't asked for hamsters. Inside he had been enraged at the very idea. He had asked for a guinea pig. He wanted another Stripe, a Stripe of his own to keep him company in the long, empty days he spent in the dark, cold basement. He asked for so little and Ghost couldn't even get one simple request right?

But he knew not to complain. Not to throw a fit. Definitely not to scream and cry.

Ghost had never liked loud noises. He didn't like it when Tweek talked too much. Even when they watched the rare movie together, almost always Disney, on the little tv/vcr combo, he had kept the volume so low that Ghost needed to keep subtitles on just so they could follow the plot.

The movies were rare. Ghost said television would rot your brain. He never left any tapes for Tweek to watch but sometimes Tweek would turn on the television, the sound muted, and just stare at the fuzz. He'd stare at the blue/black static and look for images. It had been a long time since he had seen clouds.

Tweek had learned to not like loud noises. He amused himself with quiet pursuits when he was younger, Legos and coloring books. When he got older he spent most of his time reading or doing jigsaw puzzles.

He really didn't like loud noises. The sound of his mother's voice grated his ears, put him on edge, made him grit his teeth as his hair stood up and his body went into a fight or flight response.

She talked to him quietly now. Murmured in the afternoon and downright whispered in the morning.

“Tweek,” she whispered again, “Your appointment is in two hours. You need to get up, honey.”

He pulled himself up on the bed, blankets pooling around his waist. He didn't respond but he nodded to let her know he had heard her.

She said he slept too much. Not to him, not directly, but in front of him, to the doctor. She had told him she was “concerned.”

“People sleep a lot when they're bored,” the doctor had explained to her. “That's what his body is used to. Once we get him back out in public he'll start to adjust. Let him sleep for now.”

What a joke. Let him sleep? They made him sleep. Every time he went to one of the appointments, which was every, single, day, they ended it by giving him some pill that made him sleepy. A sedative? An anti-anxiety drug? He wasn't sure.

Tweek didn't think the pill was necessarily. So he got upset and cried a little. What did they expect? The doctor forced him to say this stuff, this horrible, embarrassing, shameful, stuff right in front of his mother. And what good did that really do? Just put those images into her head? Tweek knows now, just knows, that every time she looks at him she's seeing that in her head. Seeing him as a child being forced down onto the bed, his face pushed into the pillow, as Ghost touches him back there, telling him that “daddy loves you.”

He wishes the hamsters would stop running on that stupid wheel.

His mother has already run the bath for him so all he needs to do is climb in and wash himself. Like everything else in his life, he does that wrong.

Tweek doesn't remember how to bathe correctly. It's been so long since he's done it on his own. Bathing him had been one of Ghost's favorite past times. Ghost had a lot of favorite past times. Brushing Tweek's hair. Dressing Tweek up in different outfits, sometimes boys, sometimes girls. Having him sit on his lap as he read to him, rubbing himself slowly, almost imperceptible, against Tweek's bottom until it eventually lead to Ghost's absolute favorite past time. He'd hold Tweek still on his lap even when he was in him, making him stay there, unmoving, until the book was finished. Sometimes Ghost chose short books because he was anxious or in a hurry, sometimes he chose longer ones because he really liked the story time game.

Story time didn't always end in the story time game, but more often than not it did.

Tweek was starting to get too big for the game by the end. He was getting too big for most of their games. That's why Ghost went to find another boy.

Tweek had mixed feelings about bath time. The basement didn't have a legitimate bathtub but every day, sometimes twice a day if Ghost didn't have work, he brought in a large plastic tub and filled it with water. It had been a clear storage bin when he was younger then a big, round, blue tub when he was older. In the beginning he had hated it. Not just because it was embarrassing to be soaped up and scrubbed like he was a baby but because his hands made Tweek feel scared and sick to his stomach. One day though he suddenly noticed that he enjoyed the feeling of Ghost washing his hair and that had made him feel horrible. Why would he like anything Ghost did to him?

“Tweek, are you okay?” his mother called again, not opening the door. “It's almost time to go.”

He doesn't remember how to bathe correctly. He doesn't know how long most people bathe for. He doesn't remember if you're supposed to wash yourself down there. But he likes the feeling of the hot water and the way the water sounds when he moves his limbs. He likes lying back in the water and feeling his hair, long as it is now, tickling along his lower back.

He gets out and goes to the doctor's appointment with his mother. The doctor suggests, again, that maybe she should sit out this session, and she, again, refuses to leave Tweek's side.

The doctor insists on him taking another one of the pills even though Tweek begs him to not make him, he wants to be awake and alert for Craig's visit this afternoon. But the doctor convinces him, as usual.

He falls asleep on the ride back and stumbles up the stairs to his bedroom.

It doesn't look like his old bedroom anymore. The walls have been painted. The bed is new. His toys are gone.

But it's a room and there's a bed and he sleeps there so he supposes it is his bedroom.

He sleeps until his mother is there again, waking him up, and maybe he does sleep too much because it feels like she's constantly waking him up.

Craig is here.

It doesn't even occur to him until he's walking down the stairs and sees him standing there with his backpack over one shoulder that he had forgotten to bake the cupcakes. He had been asleep when he should have been baking!

“I didn't make cupcakes,” he says quickly.

“That's okay,” Craig says and smiles at him.

Tweek thinks it's a real smile but he doesn't remember Craig smiling much as a kid and he isn't sure what it should look like. His teeth are straighter now. Too straight. Tweek had been gone so long that Craig must have gotten braces put on and removed.

He touches his tongue against the back of his own bottom teeth. They're white enough, Ghost always insisted on his mouth being clean, but they're not perfect. A few of them overlap and he has a gap on his upper left side.

Maybe he should get braces? But braces are painful. Tweek feels like he can't do anymore pain in his life.

“I brought some pictures,” Craig says after a moment of silence. “Of the guys. I thought you might like to see them?”

“Okay,” Tweek agrees. He doesn't want to see them. He doesn't want to see pictures of happy people doing normal things while he has been locked away in the dark silence. But he can't say no. He's not used to saying no. And besides, he wants to make Craig happy.

They sit at the table, the puzzle half finished between them, and Craig takes out pictures and lays them on the table one at a time, talking about each picture as he does so.

“I thought nobody used real cameras anymore,” Tweek comments when he sees the high quality of the first picture. It's a good picture, not something from a phone.

“Well, I'm really into photography,” Craig laughs. Tweek isn't sure what he's laughing at. “I have a good quality film camera even but these were just taken with my Canon. I printed them out at CVS.”

Tweek looks at the pictures and nods when Craig explains each one but he wants it to stop. Why would Craig possibly think he wanted to look at these pictures? They're like looking at somebody else's vacation photos.

Ghost had talked about taking him on vacation someday. He'd been talking about it for years. And Tweek had believed him for awhile, thinking that once he proved he wouldn't run or scream he'd be allowed out of the basement. He never had been. When Ghost had started talking about his new little brother joining him he knew there wouldn't be any vacation.

“We can look at these later,” Craig suggested, apparently catching on to his disinterest.

Tweek shrugged.

“Do you want to finish the puzzle?”

Another shrug.

“We could make cupcakes together,” Craig suggested next. “I mean, I'm not a great chef, but I can crack some eggs with the best of them.”

“We wouldn't have time to frost them,” Tweek told him. “They need time to cool down.”

“Oh.”

Tweek wondered why Craig was avoiding everything. Craig had always been blunt and direct. But he was treating Tweek like he had just moved away for a few years and then come back. Not as if he had been kidnapped by a pedophile and kept as a sex slave in a basement. He wasn't even eluding to their past relationship and Tweek was starting to wonder if he had made that part up. He had been a kid when he was taken, relationships at that age are often trivial and romantic relationships especially tend to be figments of one's imagination.

Not to mention the story behind them getting together in the first place. Tweek had come to accept he simply must've forgotten the true story because his memory of Asian girls and a town crying over them was so far fetched it was simply ridiculous. His mind seemed to make up a lot of things on its own.

“Can we go to the park?”

“The park? Uh, sure. If you're up to it? Are you, are you allowed to go outside?”

“I'm not under house arrest.”

“Yeah, I know,” Craig seemed flustered and again Tweek was disappointed. This wasn't how he remembered this boy. “Should we ask your mom?”

“If you want.”

His mother said it was fine and she found Tweek's sunglasses stashed in her purse and made him wear a baseball cap that flattened his hair. He had never liked hats. He had a fear of them as a kid, this weird belief that they'd cut off blood to the skull and turn you into a zombie monk.

God, he had been a weird kid.

“Which park? The one with the playground or the one with the walking trails?”

“The one with the trails, please.”  
It wasn't freezing out but it wasn't warm either. Tweek was wearing a new puffy winter coat, he wasn't used to outside coldness just damp, basement coldness, but Craig was only wearing a thin jacket. Still, he didn't seem cold.

And his hand, when he reached out to take Tweek's in his own, felt warm.

Tweek looked up at him, examining his face. Craig was biting at his lip, looking at Tweek and then down at their hands then back up at Tweek.

“Is this okay?”

Tweek nodded.

“If you don't want me to hold your hand you can just say so.”

“It's fine.”

It wasn't fine. Craig's hand was too large, too strong. Not the little boy hand that it used to be. It wasn't soft. The fingers weren't stumpy.

And God, was Tweek wishing Craig was a little boy? Did he want to date a little boy? After all these years would he just turn out exactly like Ghost?

He shook his head and Craig looked worried. He went to pull back but Tweek gripped him harder, not letting him go.

He didn't want a little boy. He just wanted Craig. It was just going to take some mental gymnastics for his mind to accept this was Craig.

“No. Hands are okay. Hands are good.”


	3. Craig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally post these short of chapters but eh, between working full time and school part time this seems to be working better for me.

The cold looked good on Tweek. There was something about him that suggested a very fine layer of dust covering his entire body. As if he were a piece of county fair taffy sprinkled with corn starch to keep it from sticking to its paper wrapping. Something about his paleness seemed unnatural, like it could be wiped clear with a rag and some grout cleaner.

The cold brought color to his cheeks. A ruddy hue that was more red than pink. Something wholesome and young looking.

But his eyes still held that glossy, doll eyed expression. Shiny and plastic like that of a teddy bear Tricia used to have in her room when she was younger. Whenever Craig had walked into his sister's room it had been sitting on the bed, staring. Not staring at him. Just staring straight ahead in a way that you could never find yourself in its line of vision. Something about it had been cockeyed.

Craig hadn't seen that bear in a few years. It might not be around anymore. Maybe given away at their mother's insistence at one of those charity runs the church was always requesting goods for.

They end up walking all the way to the pond together, hand in hand. At first Craig took long strides, his usual walking pattern, but Tweek was short and his legs were shorter. Also, Craig was betting it had been a long time since he had went for a hike because he lost his breath quickly and struggled to keep up. His hand grew damp in Craig's own but the blond held quick, not letting go.

Craig wondered why he was walking so quickly anyway. He had no place to be. There were walking. They weren't walking to somewhere. They were just walking. He slowed down, adopting a relaxed, strolling pace. He gave an experimental stroke of Tweek's index finger with his own thumb. Tweek didn't react. Better than pulling away.

When they reached the pond the sky was gray and the water reflected that grayness, a dull mirror. By then Tweek's face had gone from charmingly flushed to bright red and he needed to sit down on one of the logs by the pond. Craig sat down beside him, leaving room for a large man, or maybe two skinny men, between them. If the man, or men, was able to pull their hands apart anyway. Tweek was breathing heavily and Craig didn't say anything, waiting for him to catch his breath. He stroked him with his thumb again.

Tweek's breathing evened out. Eventually.

“It's chilly out today,” the older boy observed. “We should've brought a couple coffees to stay warm.”

Tweek just shook his head and mumbled, “I don't drink coffee anymore.”

And Craig supposed he knew that. He had seen the blond cradling that mug of coffee in his hand just yesterday, just holding it until it started to go cool. Then his mother had whisked in to replace it with a fresh, hot cup.

“Well, that's probably a good thing,” Craig conceded. “Too much caffeine is bad for you.”

“Kids shouldn't drink coffee,” Tweek answered vaguely.

Craig didn't point out the fact that neither of them were children. Tweek had turned eighteen just last week. But he didn't feel like an adult and he was pretty sure Tweek didn't feel like one either. Eighteen didn't feel special in particular. Craig had assumed he would wake up on his eighteenth birthday ready to file taxes and wear a tie but he still just felt like a kid.

“Do you remember when we used to fish here?”

Tweek smiles only slightly but in a genuine manner and it makes Craig feel happy for a moment.

“You caught that trout that one time,” Craig continued, “And my dad gutted it and cooked it right over there at that grill and you cried and cried and refused to eat it.”

Tweek shrugged and rubbed at his nose but he was still smiling.

“We used to go ice skating here in the winter too. It's too weird to do that now. All the kids seem so small.”

“It seemed like it was always winter, back then,” Tweek admitted. He seemed more willing to talk today and Craig was glad for that. “It's mid-November. Why is there no snow?”

“Global warming?” Craig guessed. Then laughed. “It's supposed to snow on Sunday. You'll be sick of it before you know it.”

The smile dropped from Tweek's face and Craig felt a pain in his chest. It shot through his arm, down to their entwined fingers, and he worried for a second he was having a heart attack.

“We could come skating anyway, if you want?” Craig suggested, hesitantly.

Tweek didn't respond. No smile. No hum. No shrug.

“Or sledding?”

The younger boy pulled his hand from Craig's. Not in a violent way. Not obnoxiously. He pulled it away and feigned fixing his hair, tucking a few of the long locks behind his ear, but when he lowered his hand he laid it on his own knee.

Craig scooted away another couple inches, giving him his space.

The log seemed larger than he remembered.

There's some sort of long legged bird at the edge of the pond, stepping on broad toed feet through the grass and reeds along the edge. They watch it for awhile. It moves slowly. Slower. Slower. So slow you wouldn't notice it was moving at all if you weren't watching it. It stopped entirely and just froze for several long minutes before it's neck shot out and suddenly there was a struggling bull frog in its beak.

Craig took a pack of gum from his pocket. Spearmint. He puts a couple pieces in his mouth then holds it out for Tweek. The boy starts to shake his head but then stops and removes a piece as well.

The gum feels cold like the air feels cold. It isn't late. Not really. But it's November and the days are short and the nights are cold. Craig always found it weird that “cold” was a taste. Cold like mint.

He hadn't been able to chew gum when he had his braces. He had heard that some people were told to chew to help with the pain but his doctor had always instructed him not to even think about touching a piece of the stuff. He had gone through two long years without gum. Or popcorn. Or Charleston Chews. But who the fuck eats Charleston Chews anyway? Except his dad anyway, who always brought them home from the gas station by his work and had gotten Craig addicted to them at a young age.

The birds are starting to sing their evening lullaby and Craig figures they should start walking back. It's not dark yet but Tweek seems tired and it might take awhile for them to get back to his house. He thinks about maybe telling Tweek to stay here, telling him that he'll get his car and drive back to pick him up. But the idea of leaving Tweek alone in the woods is heartbreaking and frightening.

“Ghost used to come down sometimes in his jacket and boots,” Tweek says slowly, voice very low, and at first Craig doesn't catch it. His brain has to catch up with what he said, fill in the first couple words after the last few. Craig looks at him but Tweek doesn't look at Craig. Or at least Craig is pretty sure he's not looking at him beneath his dark sunglasses. He's staring at the pond, watching the gray ripples where fish are coming up to try to catch the evening insects that skate across the surface.

Craig doesn't say anything. Doesn't interrupt him. He isn't sure if that's all Tweek meant to say but if not he didn't want to stop him. He wouldn't know what to say to that anyway.

“He usually took them off upstairs. But sometimes he'd come downstairs right away and there would be snow on them. He'd hug me and the snow would melt through my shirt and get my socks wet.”

Craig's fingers clenched on their own, balling up into a fist on the side of him facing away from Tweek. He didn't want Tweek to see his reaction. Didn't want him to mistake the meaning.

“I didn't mind though,” Tweek continued, his voice going even lower. He reached up and wiped at his nose again. It was still red and Craig couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it running. He should get Tweek somewhere warm and safe before he caught pneumonia out here.

Craig reached for his hand, not minding a little mucus. Tweek let him take it but he didn't try to return the guesture. Craig could've been holding that cold, wet trout from years ago in his hand. His hand felt so cold and clammy. He kept holding it anyway, but at his side, not on his lap. He didn't want to bring Tweek's hand anywhere near his lap or thigh.

“I liked the smell of the fresh snow,” Tweek explained. “You know how when you come in at night when it's really cold out and snow smells like mint and pine and cold car parts?”

“Yeah, I know that smell,” Craig agrees. He squeezes Tweek's hand and waits for him to continue.

He doesn't.

That seems to be all Tweek wanted to say right now.

Craig pulls him up five minutes later and starts leading him back to his house. It's not dark out yet but the sun is about to set. The door is locked when they try to enter and Mrs. Tweak has to let them in. She locks the door behind them again.

The house feels stuffy after being outside. It smells like cinnamon rolls.

It's weird that the place always smells like baked good still. It used to smell like this because Tweek and his parents, mostly Tweek, had always made their pastries for the coffee shop at home the night before. But Tweak Bros closed down years ago. Why was Mrs. Tweak baking still?

Not for Mr. Tweak. Craig knew better than to ask but there was no sign of Mr. Tweak through the whole house. Not a single photograph. And Mrs. Tweak wasn't wearing a ring.

For the first time Craig wondered if she was still Mrs. Tweak. Did she have a new name?

“I made cinnamon rolls but don't eat them yet. Dinner is in the oven. Did you want to join us for dinner, Craig?”

He looks at Tweek. Tweek looks blankly back at him.

“If you don't mind,” he says. And that sounds like he's answering Mrs. Tweak but he's looking at Tweek when he says it.

Tweek walks over to the kitchen table and since they're still holding hands Craig goes with him.

Tweek doesn't say a word to him as he starts working on the puzzle again but it doesn't seem like he wants him to leave. Craig isn't getting any “go away” vibes from him right now, not like he had last night. So he sits down in the chair across from him and continues working on his octopus.

Mrs. Tweak stands nearby at the sink, hand washing dishes. At one point she turns on the radio. It's playing what sounds like classical music. Christmas music, Craig notices after a minute. Instrumental Christmas music. It's very soft.

Tweek lifts his head to look at the radio for a second. Then he lays down a collection of pieces in the middle of the puzzle that make up a dolphin's head.

Dinner is pork roast with potatoes and carrots. Craig eats a giant portion of it because neither Mrs. Tweak nor Tweek take much. Tweek picks at his very slowly. He doesn't eat with his fork. He picks up one piece of pork at a time and pulls at it, creating threads of pale meat. He eats these threads. Each piece stays in his mouth a very long time and he chews on them as he works on the puzzle.

Craig slows down on his meal, feeling weird about shoving it into his mouth, but despite the larger portion he still finishes long before Tweek does.

Not that he actually finishes the meal. He doesn't even eat half the food on his plate and his mother puts it away for later. She finished her own meal but she puts the leftovers away in the fridge.

When she pours herself a glass of wine she offers Craig one as well and he accepts it because he is an adult not, even if he isn't legally allowed to drink yet. She doesn't offer Tweek one. Probably not allowed to have any, with his meds. The wine is red and sour and sort of dirty tasting. Craig finishes his entire glass.

They finish the puzzle at nearly eleven. Craig has class the next morning.

He wants to kiss Tweek goodbye but he settles with squeezing his hand.


	4. Tweek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this story is going pretty slow, hope I'm not horribly boring you all.

Tweek is watching the door and waiting for it to open. It will open. He knows it will open. That's how it went years ago. The door creaked open, silent and menacing, and there was no light from the hallway because it was past two and all the lights were off. There was nobody there. The door had opened on its own.

Except it hadn't.

Tweek was frozen. Or rather, nearly frozen. He could move but so slowly it felt like his limbs were submerged in cold maple syrup. The fake stuff, with the corn syrup, not the real stuff. That real stuff didn't get sticky like the fake stuff. He tried to lift his right arm at the same time as he took a step towards the bed but his limbs weigh hundreds of pounds and he couldn't make it in time.

He tried to scream instead but his throat was closed. All that came out was a thin scratchy noise. Or maybe that was the scratching of a tree against his window. Maybe he wasn't making that noise at all.

The figure slid into the room like an un-anchored shadow. The door closed on its own, silent and unsubstantial, as if it were made of light rather than wood. It stood in the dark corner of the room, away from the friendly nightlight glowing on the opposite side of the bedroom. You could see it for what it really was in that corner. Jagged teeth dripping with invisible blood. Fingers more like claws than anything human. Tattered rags that flowed like greasy hair around him.

Tweek tried to scream again. His voice came out like air from a half-inflated balloon.

The figure approached the bed, shadowy and black. As the light of the nightlight hit him it burned away the shadow, the true identity, and the fake personality began to make its way through, glowing with a false warmness. At first glance it seemed friendly and inviting, like a blazing fire on a cold evening. But when you looked at it, really looked at it, it was more like the glow of a cold television screen on a lonely summer night. One of those summer nights where you sit up alone until three in the morning watching old 70's shows because there is nothing else to do. One of those summer nights where you just lie there on the couch, cheek pressed against the clammy stickyness of the cushion, and just stare at the screen with mouth agape, not noticing the programming has transitioned to infomercials for hair removal cream because what's the point anyway?

That Tweek, the other Tweek, doesn't realize that it's that type of glow though. He thinks it's one of those cozy winter fireplace glows. He doesn't see the invisible blood or the claws. He sees a man who looks like he's from a Christmas story with a holly wreath crown and flowing robes and he doesn't even realize he feels more trusting towards him because of that. He doesn't realize the man is trying to look like Father Christmas. Like the Ghost of Christmas Present. He doesn't recognize the fact the man, the shadow, is manipulating him with pleasant memories of Christmas plays and hot chocolate and festive lights glowing on a conifer in his own living room.

This Tweek is an idiot. He's an ignorant moron and he deserves everything that's coming to him. Tweek doesn't even want to save that Tweek anymore. Let Ghost take that Tweek. If he has that Tweek he'll leave the smarter Tweek alone. If he has that Tweek he won't go looking for him when he returns to the basement and finds he isn't there waiting for him.

The idiot's mouth is moving but there is no sound coming from it. And Ghost's mouth is moving and there is no sound coming from it either. The idiot slips out of bed and he's wearing pajamas. They're Red Racer pajamas. A pair that Craig had left at his house one night during a sleepover and had never bothered to come back for until he had outgrown them so Tweek had started wearing them instead. He had worn those pajamas for two years in the basement, until the legs stopped at his calves and the fabric was threadbare.

He waits for them to leave. Once they're gone he'll crawl back into the bed and take over the idiot's life. Pick back up where he left off. Go back to school. He had believed he was too old to go back to school but now there would be an empty desk in the classroom and nobody would notice. If anybody noticed he could say he had a growth spurt. Just check my blood, go ahead. See, the DNA fits. I'm Tweek Tweak. The better Tweek Tweak. The smarter Tweek Tweak.

“Please, take him and go.” The words spill out of Tweek's mouth and it feels like something snapped. The heavy maple syrup feeling suddenly gone and the world is suddenly on fast forward.

God no. As long as he didn't speak he was invisible. As long as Ghost didn't hear him he could stand there, off to the side, and he wouldn't see him. But now Ghost is looking at him and no, no, no, he's big. Bigger than he has been in years and Tweek is wondering how he's even standing in the bedroom because his head should be touching the ceiling. Or maybe Tweek is just smaller than he thought. He looks down, because now he can move his head, and he sees those Red Racer pajamas. They stop at his calves.

“Come along baby,” Ghost says, holding the idiot's hand in one hand and holding out his other for Tweek to take. “I got your little brother now. Time to go home.”

And he still can't scream.

Even when he wakes up, staring at the ceiling, he doesn't scream. Doesn't gasp. He just stares up at the ceiling, his heart thudding in his chest.

There's a cold, wet feeling between his thighs and at first he thinks he peed himself, but it's worse than that.

Tweek pulls himself up and looks at the foot of the bed before anything else, making sure there was no glowing figure standing there, then he wiggles out of his boxers and wipes himself down. The smell of chlorine stings his nose.

The clock on the dresses glows red in the dim glow of his nightlight. Only 1:17. Goosebumps form along his arm and Tweek looks down at them, seeing the fine blond hair standing on edge.

He's feeling scared and he knows that's because of the nightmare. Knows that it's just a chemical thing, some sort of hormone or something still thrumming through his body. But he's afraid to get out of bed. Afraid of what might be hiding beneath the mattress. What might be hiding on the other side of that door.

He finds his phone. It's bulky but thin. A smartphone. When he had been taken the iPhone had barely been released and nobody he knew was rich enough to own one. Now everybody has one. Not Tweek though, or his mother. They have some sort of cheaper ripoffs. Craig had picked it out for him, telling he needed to get Nougat or otherwise what's the point? Tweek liked the idea of electronics being named after candy.

He didn't care for the internet much though. Didn't like reading about everything he missed. They had told him about what they had found on the internet. The cops, or his lawyer, he had been too confused by the sight of so many new people the first few days to keep them straight. His lawyer and the cop had looked so much alike back then, both thin with receding hairlines and glasses, but he could tell them apart now. The cop was nice, the lawyer was not. But one of them had told them about the pictures. About how they had known about them for years now but it had been years since any new ones had shown up that people had started to make assumptions.

The internet was a bad place.

He didn't use the internet. He only brought up the messages icon. There were only two active texts there, one to his mother and one to Craig. The last message from Craig had been only four hours ago, letting him know he'd be over a little late because his mom wanted to take him to buy some new shoes.

Tweek bit his lip. He didn't want to sound desperate.

'Just text me when you're on your way over.'

The response was immediate and Tweek feared that Craig must've seen this hours late text for what it is. A check, to see if he was still awake.

'Will do. Why are you still awake?'

'Nightmare.'

'You okay?'

'No.'

The phone rang and Tweek struggled to figure out how to answer it. These phones are so confusing. Why do you have to drag and shit? What was wrong with just pressing a button?

“Hello? Tweek? Are you there?”

He forgot people usually said something when they picked up a phone.

“Yeah.”

“Do you need me to come over?”

“No.”

“I'm coming over, okay. I have the key your mom gave me. Stay in bed and I'll be there in a few.”

“Okay.” Tweek looked at the door, as if he would already be there. “Turn on the hallway light when you come up.”

“Okay.”

Craig hadn't been in his room in years. Tweek was unsure if he had been there since he disappeared. It was possible maybe his mom had brought him in and told him to take anything he wanted from it. She hadn't kept much in there.

Tweek didn't like his room. Didn't like the foot of his bed. Didn't like his door. His mother had offered to switch with him but he didn't want to kick his mother out of her own room.

He puts the phone down and watches Hansel and Gretel. The sound of the phone call seems to have woken them up. Hansel has climbed back into the wheel and it's squeaking. Gretel is drinking.

The footsteps outside the door are heavy. Tweek tenses when he hears them, the muscles on his shoulders and back aching from the tension. He doesn't knock. He just calls through the door.

“Tweek, it's me. I'm coming in, okay?”

His throat closes and he is afraid that twig-on-glass scratchiness will be the only sound he's capable of making.

A squeaky “yeah” comes through.

Craig is dressed for the late November weather. He's wearing a heavy wool coat and a pair of gloves. He had never worn gloves before. It had always been mittens. Never gloves.

He removes the coat and the gloves and boots and hat and piles them all on the desk. There's no snow on them. Craig had been wrong. It hadn't snowed yet.

“Do you want me to sit on the bed?”

“No.”

“On the floor? Next to the bed?”

“F, facing the door. Here,” Tweek points next to him on the floor. Near the foot of the bed though, not near the pillows.

Craig nods and makes himself comfortable there. Tweek already feels less scared, having him there near the foot of the bed.

Tweek doesn't like the foot of the bed.

Tweek hands him a pillow and one of the blankets so Craig can wrap himself up and stay warm. The older boy thanks him and puts the pillow behind his back instead of his head. That bothers Tweek but he doesn't say anything.

They're quiet for awhile. Craig seems tired but Tweek is awake so he just watches Craig sitting there with his eyes closed, head titled slightly forward. What would have happened that night if Craig had been sleeping over? Would Ghost had taken them both? Doubtful. Ghost only liked blonds. With blue eyes. Blue eyes like the blue paint on the basement's walls. Blue paint that bring out the blueness of your eyes, honey. He would've liked Butters. Why hadn't he taken Butters instead? Because Butters was smart. Butters was well behaved. Butters wasn't an idiot. He wouldn't have went with him.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?”

He nods. “Not a real one.”

Craig nods too. He tells him a story about a lamb who goes to visit his grandmother and gets fat eating lots of corn. The first part of the story goes well but the second half seems convoluted and Craig stumbles over his words so Tweek is pretty sure he's changing how it goes. The lamb probably didn't grow up and work at NASA like Craig explained it.

It's a good story nonetheless. But Tweek doesn't ask for a second.

“Are those hamsters?”

“Yeah. Teddy bear hamsters.”

“Can you hold them?”

He nods. Hansel and Gretel are very tame hamsters. He used to spend a lot of time playing with them. Sometimes he used to feel like he would go insane without them. Something to cuddle and love of his own. Like Ghost needed something to cuddle and love.

He had been neglecting them though. He hadn't even taken them out of the cage in days.

“Can we take them out?”

“Bring them over here. Put them on the bed.”

Craig fetches them. He doesn't need help with them. Craig had taught him everything he knew about pet rodents. He brings over Gretel first and Tweek wonders how he knew Gretel was his favorite. Tweek takes Gretel from him then he gets Hansel. He doesn't get on the bed though. He kneels next to it, elbows on the side. Tweek puts Gretel down and she wanders over to him, sniffing at the sleeves of his shirt.

“They're so small.”

“I asked for a guinea pig.”

“I feel like they'd be so easy to accidentally hurt. Are they okay on the bed like this? Will they fall off?”

He shakes his head no. They're good hamsters. They do as they're told. They don't run. They don't fight back.

He picks Gretel back up and kisses the top of her head. Her fur is soft and sleek beneath his lips.

“Get up on the bed,” he tells Craig, after thinking about it for a long moment. “That side. Stay on top of the covers. We'll put them between us.”

Craig relaxes then. With the hamsters sequestered between them there are no edges for them to fall off of. He smiles at Tweek, and now he's using the pillow under his head like he should be, but Tweek still isn't happy. He doesn't know why.


	5. Craig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a big fan of this chapter. I keep editing it but it doesn't seem to come out how I like it so I'm just gonna go ahead and post it so I can move on. I prefer writing Tweek.

Mrs. Tweak had been glaring at Craig over her cup of coffee for the last ten minutes as if he had single-handedly managed to cause every moment of grief she had suffered throughout her entire life. And on top of that he was also eating the very last of her food she would have to survive a long, frozen winter on.

This is ridiculous. It wasn't like she had caught him having sex with Tweek. They had just been asleep in the same bed when she came to wake up her son for his appointment. Craig wasn't even under the blankets with the boy and Tweek had at some point in the night, after Craig had drifted off beside him, created a barrier of pillows between them to assure that absolutely nothing would happen between them.

But she continues to glare at him. Forcing the last few bites of pancakes down is difficult with somebody looking at you like that. In his head he knows Mrs. Tweak is an exceptional cook but the pancakes taste as dry and flavorless as sawdust in his mouth.

Maybe she just doesn't take well to delinquents. Craig knew he had overslept the moment he had awoken, despite Tweek's blackout curtains blocking the high morning sun from reaching into the bedroom. He could just tell in that way you can always tell when you wake up late.

Too late to bother going to school, really. Okay, yes, technically ten o'clock isn't that late, and if he had just ran for his car the moment he had awoken he may have made it by nine thirty. But when Mrs. Tweak had asked Craig, stiffly, if he needed a ride to school, Tweek had informed her that no, Craig did not need a ride to school, because they were going to a small history museum in Denver this morning. Craig hadn't been aware they were doing so but he just nodded along with the story and discretely messaged his mom about a rain check on the shoe shopping trip this afternoon.

The two Tweaks had begun to argue when Craig made his way to the shower and they weren't speaking at all by the time he was finished. But Tweek was dressed in some jeans and a dark green long sleeved shirt and asked him if he needed to pick up some clothes before they headed out.

He didn't bother changing. He had slept in these clothes but they weren't the ones he wore to school yesterday. Tweek managed to get down one pancake before telling his mother they'll be back later and climbing into Craig's ugly ass old Hyundai. It was mostly white but one of the doors was dark green and part of the rear on the same side was red. A thrown together bargain bin car that actually ran great despite looking like it belonged to Raggedy Ann.

The heater worked and Tweek played with it as soon as they were out of the driveway. He blasted it at full heat and pulled his coat tighter around himself as he waited for the November chill to melt away. Craig shot clandestine glances at him, memorizing his appearance the first time Tweek sat in his car. The morning sunlight made his hair glow.

“So, uh, where is this museum?”

“Denver.”

“Yeah, but, like, I need directions. Denver's a pretty big place.”

“I don't care,” Tweek breathed out his nose. “Any museum. Just someplace away from that house.”

It's been two weeks since Craig was reacquainted with the blond, and nearly a month since he had been reintroduced to the world. As of yet, his mother hadn't allowed him to go anywhere more populated than the walking trails around town. The trails weren't empty necessarily, but the one or two people they might run into on one of these trails could in no way be considered a reintroduction to the general public.

Craig wonders if Tweek will be able to deal with the crowds in Denver, even on a Wednesday afternoon, but he doesn't question him. Doesn't want to upset him. Doesn't want to drive him away. That's what his mother is doing and look at her now, stuck in South Park as Craig takes the other boy on a date in the city.

He feels guilty for calling it a date in his mind.

And honestly, a museum is probably a pretty good idea for an outing. A nice, quiet, calm museum on a weekday. Craig thinks of the atmosphere of the last art museum he had gone too. How quiet it had been, so quiet that every step across the highly polished wooden floors echoed throughout the exhibits as if an Apatosaurus was taking slow, heavy steps through the museum rather than a simple human being.

“She was trying to force me to drink coffee while you were in the shower.”

Tweek's confession snaps Craig out of that warm, soothing space in his head.

“She was trying to-what? Why would she do that?”

“She said it would calm me down,” Tweek huffs out. And angry Tweek might be the most talkative Tweek that Craig had seen in a long, long time. “She said it always worked when I was a kid.”

“It didn't,” Craig says, trying desperately to quash the anger rising in his voice. As much as he had loved the spaz years ago and missed some of his energy he didn't miss his shaking or paranoia. “It just made you more jittery. Even I could see that back then and I didn't know shit about addictions at that age.”

“Exactly.”

The drive takes awhile, over an hour, but there is no snow on the ground despite the fact Thanksgiving is just next week and the drive is easy. Craig hands Tweek his own phone and tells him to look up museums under the Yelp app and find one looks interesting. He finds a science one with a planetarium but they don't have shows on Wednesdays. Nevertheless, he reads the directions aloud to the museum and they pay ten dollars for parking.

Craig doesn't get out immediately. He sits in the driver seat, looking at Tweek. The young boy is looking at the people walking by in the parking lot, turning his head as they pass by and following their movement until a closer set of people cross his path. His sunglasses are dark and it's cloudy today, so cloudy that Craig can't see a hint of the other boy's eyes behind the frames.

“You sure you're up for this? There will probably be a lot of kids and other people here. We could find an art museum instead? Or a local history one?”

Tweek bites his lip and turns his head away from Craig, looking for somebody to watch from behind the car but nobody is coming from that direction right now. The older boy reaches for his hand and holds it, letting him make up his mind on his own. He feels cold. He always seems to feel cold. Craig remembered he always used to feel warm. If anything he used to feel too hot, never wearing coats in the winter despite the snow and frost because they made him sweat.

Sometimes Craig used to put his arms around Tweek's waist and huddle up behind him on especially cold days, using him to block the wind. He had been his own miniature blond heating pad. Thinking back on it now Craig supposed it had been the caffeine, raising his metabolism to unnatural levels for a boy his age.

Tweek opens the door to the car.

Entrance is pretty cheap, even cheaper because it's not a weekend, and they both receive a fold out map from the lady at the entrance. Craig looks at it as Tweek holds onto his arm, staying close to him. He hasn't done that once in the last few weeks, has never allowed any more touch than fingers and palms, but it feels nice. Keeping him safe is something Craig should have been doing for years now. The museum isn't overly crowded but the blond goes out of his way to avoid any bodily contact by any strangers passing by. Kids run by them screaming and laughing as adults with “chaperone” pins chase after them. Pre-holiday field trips for local Denver schools.

Despite the chaos, Tweek seems to be enjoying himself, but Craig notices he refuses to take part in any of the hands on activities. He just stands back, reading and looking at the exhibits. They hit the astronomy area first, at Tweek's suggestion.

“I know you always were fascinated with outer space,” he mumbles, averting his eyes. And Craig is almost overwhelmed that Tweek remembers his love for astronomy. At that age it had been a budding interest, barely explored, but Tweek remembers.

Then they go to the exhibit on sustainable energy and the exhibit on nutrition.

The exhibit on dinosaurs is small, this museum is not big on evolution or natural history, but Tweek seems to be enjoying it most of any exhibits and Craig is reveling in that fact. He honestly can't remember if Tweek always had a thing for dinosaurs and that first saddens him and then frightens him. If Tweek had been gone another two years, another five years, would he remember anything about him at all? Would the haze of childhood fall behind and only leave the concreteness of adulthood?

He's considering if they have time to go to the natural history museum nearby today when he sees him.

Craig spots him first and he tries to maneuver them both out of the way before he or Tweek catch on. But it doesn't work. He sees them and Craig sees the almost girl-like face light up in joy and Craig is wondering why the hell he's even here. Isn't he supposed to be in Utah or Nevada or something?

He tells him so when he comes over to greet them.

“I'm on Thanksgiving break,” Butters explains his voice as upbeat and high and friendly as ever. “But mom says being on vacation is not an excuse to stop learning.”

“That's nice,” Craig says. He wants to tell the boy to fuck off but he doesn't want to sound hostile in front of Tweek. He's afraid to sound like that in front of him. Afraid of upsetting him. Triggering him. Tweek doesn't need hostility in his life. He needs warmth and gentleness.

“Dad wouldn't let me out on my own, of course,” Butters continues, “They don't know what I'd get up to on my own but they're both working today. I'm here with Mrs. Broflovski and Kyle.”

No. No, no, no. The words “abort mission” practically appear before him. Tweek is not dealing with Kyle fucking Broflovski today. They need to get out of here, asap.

“Well, nice seeing you Butters, glad to see your dad hasn't gotten you lobotomized yet. We were planning on doing the animal meet and greet soon so we really need to be on our way.”

“Oh!” Butters claps his hands. Some hair falls over his eyes and Craig wonders why the supposedly strict boarding school he attends would let a boy have bangs. “We were going to do that too! Let me find Kyle and- Kyle, Kyle!” The blond waves his hand in the air. “Over here!”

Craig sighs deeply and looks at Tweek, trying to figure out how to get out of this situation. Tweek isn't trying to pull away but his eyes look big and Craig is certain he's feeling overwhelmed by everything going on around him. And God! What if Kyle brings up their brief fling to Tweek? Alright, fling may be a bit much. Friends with benefits? Fuck, they were never friends. They slept together a half a dozen times over a one month period and that was it. Surely Kyle would have more tact than that. Who is he kidding? This is Kyle fucking Broflovski. Kyle Broflovski has the tact of a bulldozer taking down a house.

“Shouldn't you be in school?” Craig spits out immediately, on the offensive before Kyle can get a single word out.

“Ike had a orthodontist's appointment and mom took us both out early,” Kyle frowns. Craig cringes inside, remembering his own appointments. There were no orthodontists in South Park, it was too small. “What about you? We had that math test today and you weren't-” Kyle cuts off, suddenly noticing who is standing beside him. Not just noticing that there is somebody beside him, but who it is. He takes a step back from them before catching himself. He lifts his chin, eyes hardening, and that's so like Kyle. Reacting with hardness to something that made him uncomfortable. Tweek does not need to see that hardness. “Never mind. Butters, come on, we're going to the meet and greet.”

“Craig and Tweek are coming too,” Butters bubbles, teeth showing all white and just a tad too big for his mouth. How did Butters do that? He hadn't even reacted to Tweek's presence. Craig was assuming the boy was either too stupid to even notice Tweek, or too vapid to realize who he was. But evidently he had recognized Tweek and that was apparently not a big deal in the slightest.

Tweek shook his head and stepped closer to Craig, pressing his own chest against the taller boy's back. Craig goes to lift his arm around him, reflex wishing to pull him close, but he stops with his arm lifted midway into the air, hovering behind Tweek's waist. He leaves it frozen in the air for only a few seconds but those few seconds feel so awkward. He drops his arm back at his side, humiliated, clenching his fist. He doesn't want to be seen like this in front of Kyle. So pathetic and weak that he can't even comfort an obviously disturbed boy.

“Come on Tweek,” Butters touches his shoulder and Craig wants to punch him in the fucking mouth. How dare he think he can just show up and touch him like that? Doesn't he know what happened? How fragile Tweek is? How broken? You can't just fucking touch him without asking. Definitely not five seconds after seeing him. Craig expects Tweek to freeze or to pull away or maybe even to push Butters off him.

He doesn't.

“Last time we were here they had an opossum,” Butters coos, his too big teeth just asking for a fist to them. “It was real cute. Do you like opossums?”

Tweek creeps out from behind Craig's shoulder and looks at Butters. He's an inch taller than Butters but probably lighter. He reaches up and brushes some of his hair from his face.

“Yeah.”

“Eric said they had sort of awesome jumping cat when he came here in middle school. But heck, I was out sick and didn't get to see it.”

He tugs at Tweek's arm and Tweek, miraculously, lets Butters lead him away. Butters puts his arm up on Tweek's shoulder like Craig has so desperately wished to do and Tweek melts against him like a lump of snow against the side of a house. Shapeless. Craig stands where he is, shocked, and looks towards Kyle. The redhead stares back at him.

“He seems...okay.”

“He's not okay!” Craig explodes, grabbing the redhead by the wrist. “After this animal thing we're leaving. Don't let Butters try to convince him otherwise.”

“I have no control over Butters,” Kyle objects.

Craig tightens his grip on his wrist and for a second it feels familiar. Kyle has very delicate wrists but the skin on them is so thin the veins are extremely visible in the harsh museum lighting. Craig remembers holding those wrists at a different time, up above the boy's head, as the redhead sobbed for Stan, telling him how good he felt.

He does not want to think about that now. Does not want to think of sex at all. Somehow he feels like Tweek would know if he was aroused. Would sense it in his smell or eyes or something. Surely he must've gotten good at knowing when a man had sex on his mind over the years. Craig had read about victims becoming super observant of abuser's body signals.

“Tell him you need to go find your mom or something.” He bites out and he knows he's being more vicious that he needs to be because he's frustrated.

“He needs to be out and about, it'll be good for him to see some of the old crowd.” Kyle struggles to pull away from Craig but he's never been a very strong boy. He's nearly as tall as Craig but he's all bone and skin, no muscle to speak of. “You can't just keep him to yourself.”

“Kyle, you don't know anything about this situation, so kindly fuck off.” He releases Kyle and purposely shoves him with his should as he passes by.

The meet and greet ends up being a wallaby. Nobody is allowed to pet it but it jumps around and eats treats from the trainer's hand. Craig keeps glancing at his watch, waiting for it to be over with, as the trainer drones on and on about speed and diet and mating habits.

He tries to wrangle Tweek out of there before the talk ends, hoping to escape before the crowd dispersed. But Butters and Kyle have somehow managed to shoulder him out of the situation as they surround him and whisper words towards him that are too quiet for Craig to hear. Butters takes his hand when a man in the crowd accidentally bumps against him. Craig had seen him go stiff and moved to intervene but he was too late.

“Come on, let's get lunch,” he says.

There's a cafe inside the museum but the food is overpriced and sounds boring as all hell so they get hot dogs from a vendor outside instead. The sausage type with fried onions and peppers. There's an herb garden outside. It looks dead, this late in the year, but they wander through it as they eat hot dogs and sip at soda. Tweek only finishes half of his hot dog and gives Craig the other half to finish.

“Butters gave me his number,” he tells him, “He's going to come over before he heads back to school.”

“Do you want me to tell him you changed your mind?”

“Why would I want you to do that?” Tweek asks, looking confused. His lips still look greasy from the fried onions. Craig wishes he could kiss him. “He's going to come over tomorrow morning and we're going to make cookies.”

“I won't be there,” Craig reminds him, moving closer to the boy. The soda is making him feel colder. “I have school.”

“Well, yeah, that's why we're doing it in the morning.”


	6. Tweek

Tweek awakes to the familiar sensation of an orgasm shooting through his body. Instinctively he tenses in fear, waiting for some sort of pain to follow. Most orgasms he has had in his life have been accompanied by at least a degree of pain. Not during it necessarily but soon after.

But there would be no physical pain today. No stretching of too-abused flesh. No bites on his shoulders. No scratches down his back.

No, not any physical pain. But the mental pain that always came from release never goes away.

Tweek has been struggling with this situation for weeks. Years, really, if he really thought about it. It was a new symptom of an old disease. Guilt. Shame. Disgust. Self loathing.

His body was used to almost daily sex, sometimes multiple orgasms within a twenty-four hour period, and it seems to think this was the norm because ever few nights he's been waking up to damp sheets and sticky thighs.

And he had yet to go a single night where he doesn't dream about Ghost.

Tonight's might've been the worse dream so far. He preferred when he was dreaming about fear and blood and pain. He preferred when his subconscious morphed his abuser into a terrifying demon figure, more animal than human.

He had been dreaming about the first time he had ejaculated. Not the first time he had orgasmed, that had been forced out of him earlier on in a dry variety, but the first time there had been physical proof of his body's enjoyment. The first time he couldn't deny what he felt, to himself or the older man. He had been just a couple weeks short of twelve-years-old at the time and it had hit him so suddenly he had burst into tears. Ghost didn't see as surprised. He swallowed it all and then stroked Tweek's tear-stained face with lube-slicked fingers, murmuring to him 'You were such a good boy for daddy.”

Tweek doesn't like that memory. He doesn't want to dream about it. He doesn't want to dream about times when Ghost _wasn't_ hurting him. His doctor keeps telling him that orgasm doesn't mean consent or enjoyment but Tweek is sure that's what the doctor probably tells everybody. And really, what does that say about Tweek anyway? That he's always been such a queer that he was able to easily cum under the hands of an abusive pedophile? Repeatedly.

He's sure his mom is starting to wish they'd never found him.

He figures if he did something about “releasing” during waking hours he would probably stop waking up to wet blankets. So he had tried watching porn like a normal eighteen-year-old boy. He had quickly decided he doesn't like porn. He had spent hours clicking through random videos of men fornicating with other men. They were all too big and sort of scary looking. The only video that had remotely aroused him had been one of a dark haired teenage boy being fucked by an older man, his wrists tied and his eyes blindfolded. He doesn't know why his body had reacted to that video and he doesn't like to think of it. He had closed the laptop when he realized he had been getting hard.

So he had tried just closing his eyes and thinking of Craig instead. That had gone even worse. There was no hint of an erection at the idea of being with the other boy. It just made him feel dirty and guilty for even thinking about it. Even waking up already hard hadn't worked. It just wasn't something he had ever done and it didn't come naturally to him. Or it didn't come naturally to the him that existed today, anyway. He doubted masturbation was something he would've overlooked in his teenage years if he hadn't lost his virginity at nine-years-old.

The doorbell rings downstairs, shocking Tweek with the familiar yet alien sound. Craig always knocks, rejecting the simplicity of a simple press of the finger, and nobody else has come to the house. Or if they do Tweek has been asleep during it. The sound of the doorbell feels like hearing an old schoolyard rhyme you had all but forgotten about. Familiarity on the tip of your tongue seeped in nostalgia, with a touch of remorse.

He glances at the clock. It's already 8:00. Well, 8:05. Butters is nothing if not punctual.

Tweek likes that Butters is smaller than him. He likes how he smiles. There's something about Butters that is maternal in a way that Tweek's own mother lacks. He doesn't look like a man exactly, not like Craig looks like a man or Kyle had. There's something softer to his face. Tweek bets Butters doesn't have to shave. Tweek doesn't have to shave often but he still needs to. Butters has a face that is baby soft and appears as if a razor has never touched it.

He thinks again about how Ghost would have liked Butters and is pleased to find he feels slightly guilty about that thought. He thought he had stopped feeling guilty over these things years ago.

“Do you want a taste?” the other blond asks, holding out the wooden spoon he had just been stirring the cookie dough with. Tweek thinks about how his father always told him he'd die from eating raw dough. How he'd catch salmonella from the eggs and turn into a big, meaty salmon and be sold off to the fish market for people to throw on the grill as filets.

He nods and takes the spoon from Butters. Nothing fancy, just peanut butter cookies, but the dough tastes amazing. The brown sugar isn't totally melted and it's mealy in his mouth.

“Do we have to cook it?”

“Don't you want them all cooked and ready for Craig when he stops by?”

He had never baked for Ghost. He hasn't baked in years, actually. Was never allowed anywhere near a stove in the basement. When he was younger, smaller, Ghost used to leave a cooler with food in it for him and sometimes he'd get to make his own paninis or microwave some soup. That had stopped when he started getting taller. Ghost had started to become more limiting with his food then, closely monitoring his intake. But even before that he had never been allowed to bake anything. He's surprised he remembers how to even, his body going almost more by muscle memory than anything else. But he's glad he never baked anything for Ghost. He didn't want to show him any sort of uncalled for affection. But he wants Craig to eat his cookies. He wants him to taste the love he's put into them.

“Yeah. Okay.”

They get the first batch in the oven and then sit down at the table. His current puzzle is covered with a glass table top his mother had picked up for the purpose. Butters has brought over a stack of board games and he grabs Candyland off the top and sets it up on the glass.

“Sorry I couldn't bring some better ones. Most of them need at least three people.”

“No, this is good.”

He has a doctor's appointment this afternoon, as usual, but they have a few hours until then. His mother is going back to work next week so he'll need to start taking the bus, or learn to drive. He hates going to the doctor as it is but he knows he will hate it even more when it includes a long bus drive on top of everything else. The doctor isn't helping at all and Tweek doesn't like talking about personal things in front of his mother. Tweek is glad she's running errands right now because he wants to be alone with Butters.

“Butters?”  
“Yeah?” The blond is in the middle of shuffling the cards but looks up when Tweek mumbles his name.

“Do you think you would still have been gay if those things hadn't happened to you?”

“Well gee, I'm not gay. I'm pansexual.” Butters sets the cards down on the table.

Tweek's pretty sure that's just a fancy way of saying bisexual. When he was a kid he had heard of straight and gay and bi but it seemed like there were a lot more labels now a days. Pansexual. Asexual. Demisexual. When did things start getting so complicated?

“Well, whatever you are. Do you think it's because you're messed up from what your uncle did to you?”

“My uncle?” Butters rubs his knuckles together in that childishly nervous way he used to do. Tweek finds that comforting somehow. “Well, no, I don't think what my uncle did messed me up or anything. I mean, my dad was always way worse to me. And my mom tried to drown me that one time. And there was the stuff with my tap dancing career. I mean, I don't think what my uncle did was a big deal or anything.”

“He molested you,” Tweek points out.

“Well, yeah, but I didn't know that was what he was doing at the time.” Butters' pale face is flushed with embarrassment but he smiles through it, looking like some maiden on an old German sausage ad or something equally old world and wholesome.

“How did you not know you were being molested?”

Tweek had never doubted what was happening to him. Ghost hadn't attempted penetrative sex with him immediately, it had been a somewhat gradual lead up over the first two weeks. But even that first night when all he had done was sleep in the bed with him, chest pressed to Tweek's back and his hand up under the boy's shirt, he had known what was happening.

Butters rubs at his eye and looks towards the window. It's raining out and the kitchen feels nice. Cozy, dim, warm with the smell of cookies baking

“Well, my aunt's cat had just had some kittens and he was showing them to me.” Butters begins. Tweek wants to tell him to stop because he doesn't want the full details but he feels like Butters needs to tell him this so he stays quiet. “They were in their bedroom closet but they were too little to pick up, their eyes were still closed. But Uncle Bud knew I'd want to see them so he snuck me in.”

Tweek feels himself wince, internally if not externally. The idea of a young, vulnerable Butters alone in the bedroom with a creepy old man disturbs him. Even if he didn't know how the story ended the idea would disturb him. Butters notices his reaction. Reaches out to pat his hand. But he continues nonetheless.

“The momma cat kept licking the baby's privates. They do that when they're really young to help them go potty, you know that? Anyway, I had never seen that before so I asked my uncle why she was doing that and he said, well, I can't remember what he said actually. But he asked me if I wanted to pretend I was a kitten and I said sure so he put me on the bed and pulled down my pants and-”  
“I don't need to know the rest,” Tweek cut in. He could imagine on his own. Much more clearly and detailed then he wished to.

“Oh.” Butters rubs his knuckles together again. “Well, it didn't hurt or anything. I didn't know it was something bad until the people at the school asked about Chef.”

“It didn't hurt?”

Butters shook his head.

“So he didn't...put anything in?”  
“Well, his tongue. But it was just slimy and weird feeling, not painful.”

“Oh.”

Tweek feels disappointed. He knows he should be glad that Butters wasn't raped but he isn't. He wanted Butters to know the same things he did. He wanted Butters to understand. But Butters hadn't experienced what he had experienced.

Still.

“But you don't think maybe you'd just be straight if it hadn't happened?”

“No. I don't think anything that happens to you can change your sexuality.”

“But you got with Cartman of all people. Your uncle touched you and you ran right into the arms of the most abusive guy in school.”  
“Hey,” Butters protests, sounding offended. “It wasn't like Cartman was my first lover or anything! I dated Wendy for nearly three months and then I went out with Douglas for over a year and between him and Cartman I had a few flings. It's not like I'm so emotionally stunted I can only date megalomaniacs.”

Wendy? Butters didn't date just a chick but Wendy Testaburger? And who was Douglas? Should Tweek remember Douglas? He feels like he's letting everything slip away again. Forgetting things. Missing things. Everybody in the school must have been talking about Wendy dating Butters. What must've changed for that to ever have happened? Everybody always knew Stan and Kyle would get together eventually so it wasn't like anybody thought Stan and Wendy were a forever couple. But Wendy was so out of Butters' league that the sky might as well be green and grass blue. Had everything changed that much? Had he really missed out on that much? How much of his life had he lost in that basement? How many wasted memories? Opportunities? Laughs? Dances and bake sales and spirit weeks and football games. He could've been making out with Craig beneath the bleachers, giggling and feeling naughty from their experimentation with beer or pot or public hand jobs. So much time wasted. He couldn't go back now. He couldn't return to the past and relive those experiences. Everybody had already lived those experiences without him. The cozy dimness of the kitchen feels like the dark dampness of the basement.

“Come on Tweek, drink it, please. It will make you feel better. Please, for mommy?”

He snaps to and Butters is no longer in his seat, he's across the room by the doorway, and his mother, dressed in a long, wet woolen coat, is pressing a mug to his lips. He reacts before he knows it, swiping at the mug and sending it crashing to the floor. Black coffee and shattered ceramic pieces scatters.

“Tweek!” his mother screeches. He flinches, his hands going automatically to his face, covering his eyes.

“Don't!” Butters' voice cries out from across the room, through Tweek's fingers. “You're going to scare him!”

He feels arms around him and inhales the scent of eucalyptus and rosemary. His mother always smells of coffee. Butters pulls Tweek's head against his chest and holds him there. His sweater is unbelievably soft against Tweek's face. His smell is soothing. Tweek listens to the sound of his own breathing, counting the breaths as he tries to calm himself.

Butters is soft. Butters is small. He likes Butters.

He doesn't like it when his mother tells Butters to go home for the day. He really doesn't like it when she tells him he has to get ready for his doctor's appointment.

They're not working. The appointments are not working. He doesn't want to go. He wants to stay home and wait for Craig to get out of class so he can feed him cookies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> 1\. The porn Tweek was referencing was one featuring Kyler Moss, in case you're wondering.  
> 2\. Douglas shows up in a picture during the Say Something scene in Tweek x Craig. He's drinking coffee with Craig after their “break up.”


	7. Craig

Tweek and his mom show up twenty minutes late from the time Craig's mom given them in regards to when they would be eating. Craig sits on the couch next to his sister, tapping his foot, waiting impatiently. Paranoid thoughts race through his mind on why they could be late, from car accidents to terrorists. When they do show up, finally, no explanation on their tardiness is offered. Tweek's face is red and his eyes bloodshot and he's doing nothing productive to hide this fact. Craig's father, who usually complained if he had to wait for dinner, doesn't say anything. He pats Tweek's shoulder and mumbles out, gruffly, that it's good to see him.

Thanksgiving wasn't normally an especially meaningful holiday for Craig. His family had always made it a nuclear-family-only event, occasionally with a grandparents or two making a short appearance if they were feeling up to. When they were younger his parents used to go around the table and have them all list what they were thankful for. That stopped eight years ago. The last few years he has felt less than grateful about his state in life. But this year is different. Not only is Craig truly thankful for something that something would be there at the table with him, hopefully gorging on turkey and mashed potatoes. Heaven knows he could use the calories.

Mrs. Tweak thanks Craig's mom for inviting them and she waves away the mandatory acknowledgments, saying something about how cooking for six isn't that different than cooking for four. Craig was pretty sure she had been complaining about how many extra potatoes she needed to peel and how many extra beans she had needed to de-stem when she had been clanging around in the kitchen but what does he know? Women just liked complaining about things, from his experience.

Craig hugs Tweek gently in greeting, not lingering with his touch. They had just worked up to hugging the past weekend and he doesn't want to take it for granted. He looks him up and down. It looks like he's straightened his hair, it hangs long down his back. Craig keeps wanting to ask him why he hasn't had it cut yet but the question sounds too personal. Tweek is wearing a green and brown argyle sweater vest over a long sleeved tan shirt. With the vampire-like hair it makes him look sophisticated, like he should offer to play a round of chess against him, while also giving him an air of warmth. He hugs him again.

“I'm so glad you're here.”

“I'm happy to be here,” Tweek rests his hand in the dip between Craig's shoulders. “It'd be lonely with just me and mom this year.”  
“No I mean you're here here. Like back with me here.”

“Oh.”

Everybody is already taking their seats. Craig's father sits at the end of the table, the already carved turkey piled up on a large platter in front of him. To his left is Craig's mom and Tricia, to his right Mrs. Tweak and then Tweek. Craig takes the end opposite his father. He always sits at the end. His dad insists that as the head of his own family someday he needs to get used to being at the end of a holiday table. Despite this sentiment he refuses to ever let Craig touch the carving knives.

Dinner seems bigger than usual. Not just the quantity of food but the varieties themselves. Craig doesn't recall his mother ever making homemade cranberries or roasted brussel sprouts. And usually they had either sweet potato casserole or candied squash, not both. Mrs. Tweak brought over two homemade pies, both ready for the oven, and Craig's mom put them in before sitting down so they'd be ready later.

It's a Tucker family rule that children over the age of fifteen are allowed a small glass of sparkling wine at holiday dinners. These included Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. Halloween, Fourth of July, Memorial Day, and Labor Day were not included. Craig accepts his glass as usual but when she offers Tweek a glass Mrs. Tweak quickly cuts in, declining for him.

“He can't drink. It'll interfere with his medication.”

“Like the medication does anything anyway,” Tweek mutters. “I didn't take it today. Please pour me a glass, Mrs. Tucker.”

“You didn't take your medication?” his mother looks at him, frowning. She had hard eyes. Craig doesn't recall ever noticing that before. “Do you not want to get better?”

“I'm not going to just 'get better.' There's nothing wrong with me that medicine can fix.”

Craig sees Mrs. Tweak is about to argue back but his mom shoves a glass into her hand and she takes a drink from it instead and withholds her comment. Craig reaches down between them, entwining his fingers with Tweek's. He doesn't see the big deal about skipping the drugs for just one day. It's a holiday, a special occasion.

Tricia has just won a part in the spring play at school and she starts telling them about it. They're doing Seussical the Musical and she got the part of Miss Gertrude McFuzz and has been bragging about it all week.

“Freshmen like never get leading parts like this,” she tells Mrs. Tweak. “Usually all the best parts go to the juniors or seniors but Mrs. Frampton said I have a beautiful voice and she thinks I'll do great.”

“It runs in your family, dear,” Mrs. Tweak smiles at his little sister. “I remember Craig and Tweek doing some talent shows together when they were younger. Tweek plays the piano beautifully and your brother would always sing along. Not that his voice was ever a comparison to Tweek's playing.”

“Mom,” Tweek interrupts.

“I'm just saying, you were always a great musician. You've always had the soul of an artist.”

Alright, Craig loves Tweek more than anything, but that statement was a bit far fetched. Tweek is a capable piano player and sings okay but he was never overly creative or anymore talented than the average kid out there. Moms will be moms, he supposes.

He gives the boy's hand a squeeze and hopes he understands what it means. That he loves him and is here for him. They haven't articulated exactly what this is yet. There have been no mentions of “love” or “boyfriends” or being “together.” But they are almost always holding hands when they're together which has been daily the last couple weeks. Friends don't hold hands. Friends don't hug each other hello and goodbye. Well, not American male friends.

Tweek finishes his wine and asks if he can have just one more. Craig's mom stutters, explaining that family rules only allow one glass to minors, but she gives in and pours him half a glass and then tops off Craig's as well with the remaining couple ounces at the bottom of the bottle. A bottle of zinfandel is opened next and Mrs. Tweak accepts a glass of the red. Tweek looks worried as she downs the glass quickly and asks for a refill. Craig smiles at him and Tweek smiles back nervously.

Craig's father makes a comment about some football game but nobody has kept up with sports lately. Even Craig, who has been preoccupied with everything going on lately, has nothing to add to the conversation. Too bad Mr. Tweak isn't here to help out his poor dad.

Mrs. Tweak and his mom end up discussing some sort of sale the store is apparently having the next day on kitchenware so Tricia starts talking to Tweek, asking him questions about what songs they used to perform because she was too young to really remember them. Craig can tell this is a call for attention. She wants to bring the topic back to her part in the play without her being the one to bring it up. He can see why she got the part, she is actually a great actress. She hides her disappointment perfectly when nobody mentions her part in the musical.

“Do you play video games?” she moves on afterwards. “Craig gave me his PS3 when mom got him a PS4. You can come into my room and play Little Big Planet if you want.”

“I've never played that,” he says. “Butters owned it but we never played it together.”

“It's really easy to get into. The controls are super simple. I'll show you.”

“Trish, leave Tweek alone,” Craig scolds, flipping off his little sister. Tweek kicks him in the foot for the gesture. He kicks back, playfully. “We're supposed to be spending the evening together as a family. You can't lock him away in your bedroom.”

“I didn't mean today,” Tricia huffs.

“I used to have a PS3,” Tweek tells her, “But I think my mom got rid of it.”

“She got rid of all your stuff,” Craig says, making his disgust over the situation clear in his voice. “I still have your toothbrush and pajamas in my bedroom. Um, not that you'd fit in them or anything. But, you know, I kept everything.”

“I'm not the one who gave away all of Tweek's stuff,” Mrs. Tweak butts into the conversation. He didn't think she'd hear him over the other voices at the table. “That was Richard. It was his idea to turn it into a home gym. That he never used, may I add.”

“Mom,” Tweek complains again. He grimaces, embarrassed. Craig wants to tell him he doesn't need to feel embarrassed. Tweek is his family so Craig's family is Tweek's family. You aren't supposed to feel embarrassed in front of family. He's sure if he told him that in front of everybody he'd just feel more embarrassed.

“Don't make me out to be the bad guy here, Tweek.” There's a slur to Mrs. Tweak's voice and Craig isn't sure if she's on her third or fourth glass of wine. He wonders if she's a mean drunk. His father had been a mean drunk when he was younger, he would yell at them and threaten to beat their asses for tiny offenses. He even hit his mom a few times. But he seemed to outgrow it. Can you grow into being a mean drunk?

“I'm not trying to make you into the bad guy here but please-” Tweek's voice is shaky, his hand trembling in Craig's own. Doesn't she see she's upsetting him? His eyes are shining.

“I'm sorry your father ruined your fantasy about moving out to California to live with him but he's the one who left so stop treating me like crap over all of this,” she sneers, face flushed from the alcohol.

Tweek bit his lip, going quiet. He looked down at his plate, piled heavily with richly colored foods. He never ate much anyway but with all the different dishes on his plate it looked like he had barely even touched it. Craig wants to slap Mrs. Tweak across the face for getting in the way of what could've been a pleasant meal for all of them.

“I wasn't planning on moving out there with him. I just wanted to visit.” Tweek speaks so lowly that Craig is unsure if Mrs. Tweak will even be able to hear him.

“Helen,” Craig's mom cut in. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Apple juice?”

“My wine glass is still half full,” Mrs. Tweak points out, raising said glass into the air. It sloshes to the side, ruby red droplets splashing onto his mom's brown and orange tablecloth.

“Can I be excused to use the bathroom?” Tweek mumbles, eyes still on the plate before him.

“Of course, dear,” Craig's mother tells him quickly, obviously eager to diffuse the situation. “Do you remember where it is?”  
“I'll show him,” Craig interrupts. He doesn't need to grab his hand since he's already holding it. He helps him out of his chair. “Come on, Tweek.”

He leads him to the upstairs bathroom even though the downstairs one is closer. Tweek doesn't close the door to the room. He turns on the sink and splashes some water onto his face, rubbing at his eyes. Craig hands him a towel to dry.

“Did something happen?” he asks quietly.

“Can we go into your bedroom?”

“Uh, yeah, of course.”

He leads Tweek into the room next door, his own bedroom. It's spotless as usual and Stripe #9 squeals at him from his cage. Tweek looks around as if he's trying to recall what the room used to look like. The bed takes up much more room than it used to. With his height gain, Craig had needed a larger bed. His desk was larger as well, the cheap Ikea one replaced with some sturdy antique his mother had picked up at a yard sale. The walls were plastered with posters of bands that he doubted Tweek had even heard of. Not because he was “too cool” to listen to mainstream music or anything like that but because Tweek didn't know modern mainstream music.

Tweek digs around in his pant pocket for a minute and then pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. He hands it to Craig and then sits on the bed, his hands folded in his lap. He looks ridiculously proper, like he's at church or a funeral.

Craig skims the note. It's only six lines long. It's from Tweek's father and long story short, his father wants nothing to do with him. The last line of the note explicitly instructs Tweek to never attempt contacting him again.

“Your dad has a new family?”

“A better one, I guess,” Tweek mutters.

Craig scoffs and balls up the letter, throwing it into the trashcan before Tweek can protest.

“Forget about him. What an asshole.”

“He's my dad.” Tweek's voice is deceptively monotone. Not for the first time Craig misses the sound of his old voice. How varied the tones with the occasional screech or “or Jesus!” thrown in. Then he adds, “My first dad, anyway.”

Craig feels something drop in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't like how Tweek said that latter part. They don't talk about that stuff. Sometimes Tweek will offer up bits and pieces of information about that time but Craig never asks or pushes for it. He lets Tweek tell him what he wants about Johnson and does what he can to comfort him but he doesn't know the true depth of what their relationship entailed. He doesn't know exactly what Johnson did to him or how he treated him. Was he a slave? A surrogate son? Just an object to be used like a chair or oven? Was the basement just a barren hole in the ground or had it been fully furnished?

Craig sits down next to him. Tweeks leans towards him, resting his head on Craig's shoulder.

“Ghost made me call him daddy,” he confides. “But he was always Ghost in my mind. I knew my mom and dad were both alive so that my dad was my real dad.”

Craig lifts his hand up to Tweek's head and strokes his hair. Even though it's been tamed today, for the occasion, it still stands up enough for him to be able to push it down with the palm of his hand.

“Ghost wouldn't let me eat at first,” he went on. “In the beginning. He let me cry for the first couple days but on the third he started training me. Calling him daddy was the first thing. I didn't eat for over a week. He, he never hit me. He said he never wanted to hurt me.”

Craig places a kiss on the top of Tweek's head. It's the first one he's given him in years. Tweek looks straight ahead, not meeting his eyes.

“He did hurt me though. All the time. It always hurt. But he never hit me. He told me he loved me and called me his baby boy.”

“That monster couldn't love anybody,” Craig assures him. “He's a sociopath and he won't be getting of out jail any time soon.”

God, Craig hoped that was true. The trial wasn't set yet but it was pretty much an open and shut case. The main question was what sentence the pervert would receive. Craig had assumed it'd be life in prison but he had looked up some similar situations. He had found one situation where a boy had been kidnapped and kept for sex for seven years and the pedophile had only been imprisoned for five. You'd think the perpetrators would have to at the very least serve the same sentence for how many years of a life they had stolen.

“But he wanted me,” Tweek's voice catches. Craig puts his other arm around him, pulling him closer. Almost pulling him onto his lap. He wants to pull him onto his lap. He doesn't want to scare him.

“I want you,” he tells him, wiping at the tears on his face with the pad of his thumb.

“My real dad doesn't want me.” Tweek gulps, voice shaky. He attempts to sniff now as tears fall freely from his eyes, rolling down his cheeks like translucent pebbles.

“I want you.” Craig kisses the tears, stopping their paths as they land on his own lips. They taste like rain water. Tepid.

“He, he wanted me a, and my real dad d, doesn't.” Tweek is sobbing now, the floodgates open. His voice is clogged and strained with emotion.

“I want you.” Craig hugs him tightly against him, so hard he's afraid he'll crack one of the blond's ribs, but he wants him so badly. He wants him here with him forever. If he could he'd crawl inside Tweek's body and just live there somewhere between his liver and his lungs.

Tweek is the one who initiates the kiss. It's wet and hot and hard. Tweek's teeth knock against his own as the boy climbs onto his lap. Craig moves his hand from the back of Tweek's head to the side, holding him with a hand on each damp cheek. Tweek pushes him onto his back. He pulls back for a second, sniffles and wipes at his nose, and kisses him again. He's good at this.

Disturbingly good.

They had never kissed like this. Nothing so passionate and wet. There had never been tongues involved. He had never tasted the inside of Tweek's mouth. He tastes like sage and rosemary and thyme. His mother's stuffing.

You'd think the taste of something so familial and traditional would be off putting. He doesn't want to think of his mother when there's another boy's tongue down his throat. Instead it makes him feel like Tweek belongs here. He tastes like his home because he is his home, his family. Craig wants to marry him and start a family with him. He wants to buy a house with him and go out to restaurants with him and sleep with him snoring in his ear.

Tweek shifts on top of him, spreading his legs so there's a knee on each side of Craig's body, supporting himself with only his right arm.

He freezes when he feels where Tweek's left hand is.

Craig doesn't push him away but he moves his head to the side, breaking the kiss and trying to look down.

“What are you doing?”

“We can make it quick,” Tweek assures him, his hand already slipping into the open fly of Craig's jeans. “We'll just tell them I had an upset stomach and needed to lie down for a few minutes.”

Tweek's hand feels good. Warm, much warmer than usual, and he obviously knows how to handle an erect penis. But Craig can't do this. He bucks his hips, pushing Tweek off of him, then quickly pulls himself up into a sitting position, adjusting himself so his cock is stored back inside his restrictive clothing. He doesn't even want Tweek to see it, let alone touch it.

“We can't do this.”

“We can,” Tweek insists, trying to crawl back into his lap.

“That was our first kiss. We can't jump from that to sex and frankly, I doubt you're ready for sex right now anyway. It's too soon.” Craig is hardening his voice, trying to sound firm, because God, he hasn't had sex in two years and never with this beautiful ethereal creature in front of him and he really, really wants to. Sooner than later.

“Don't you think I know when I'm ready?”

“Honestly? No. You aren't ready, believe me.” Craig pushes away Tweek's hand, his chest squeezing as his heart nearly implodes at the action. He doesn't want to push Tweek away. Tweek doesn't deserve to be pushed away. He deserves to be held and coddled.

“It's not that big a deal,” Tweek protests. “It's not like I'm a virgin. Don't you think I deserve to be able to say that I've had sex with somebody besides a fifty-two year old man?” He pushes a few strands of his hair behind his ear. His hair is messier now but not up to its normal quality. It feels like it's lying too limp. Craig wants to mess it up again.

“If and when we do have sex, I don't want to 'make it quick,'” Craig defers the question. “I want it to be special, okay? I want us to make love, not have a quickie. Is that okay with you?”

Tweek deflates and Craig lets him lie in his lap. He pets his hair and ignores how close Tweek's mouth is to his still hard dick.

“I don't want to go back to dinner,” the younger boy sighs, his breath hot against Craig's leg. “My mom keeps accusing me of trying to leave her. I only wrote my dad because the doctor told me it would be 'therapeutic.' Therapeutic my ass. I told mom I don't want to go anymore but she told me I had to. I'm sick of fighting with her.”

“Maybe we could find you a different doctor,” Craig suggests, running his fingers through Tweek's lemon-colored locks. He's never known another person with hair the same shade as his boyfriend's. His hair is almost unnaturally bright. “Maybe a closer one? Here in town?”

“Mom doesn't want me to see anybody local.” Tweek wrinkles his nose and even from this angle it's adorable. “She says they'd blab and everybody in town would know our business.”

“You're eighteen now,” Craig points out. “You're entitled to confidentiality. We could switch doctors without her knowing, I'm sure your insurance would cover somebody better. Do you want me to look into it?”

Tweek shrugs listlessly.

“Let's get back to dinner. She'll throw a fit if we miss her pie.”


	8. Tweek

It's only the first week of December but every house in Tweek's neighborhood already has their decorations up. It's been a long time since he's seen houses decorated like this. Every year Ghost would bring down a box of decorations and they would do up the basement. It had been nice, as nice as anything in the basement ever was anyway, but it wasn't the same as seeing a whole line of houses glowing merrily on a dark December night.

Usually the outlet by the door was where he kept his nightlight plugged in. The nightlight changed over the years. It had been a Dora the Explorer one when he first arrived but Tweek had complained he wasn't a baby, so Ghost had gone out and gotten him a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle light. He didn't like that one. It had glowed green and whenever he woke up alone in the middle of the night he thought aliens were coming into the room. True, he didn't sleep alone that often, Ghost usually preferred to share his bed with him, but one alien abduction was more than enough. He didn't want to have needles stuck in his eye or probes up his rectum. He had “accidentally” broken it when Ghost was at work shortly after. So Ghost had bought him one that was shaped like Saturn and that had stuck around for a long, long time. He liked how red glowed at night. It was like having a fireplace in the basement beside him. It was more soothing than green. By the time that one shorted out when he was fifteen Ghost didn't care about making Tweek happy as much and Tweek was pretty sure the shell shaped one had just come from a bathroom upstairs.

The nightlight outlet always became the Christmas tree outlet in the winter. Since the basement had no windows he was allowed to leave the lights on all night and they glowed brighter and more cozily than the nightlight bulbs. Another string of lights went up along the edges of the room where the ceiling met the wall, boxing in the entire twelve by eighteen foot room. Ghost always had to do that part, Tweek was too short to reach that far even on the step ladder, but he would hold the end of the strand of lights for him as he stapled them up against the wall and then fetch the garland for him to wrap up around the lights afterwards. Ghost turned these lights off at night. Sometimes they'd sit together and make new ornaments for the tree. One year they made a wreath for the door. Not a real wreath but a plastic one that Tweek got the honor of hanging up every year afterwards.

It had been a long time since Ghost had done any arts and crafts with him though. He had stopped spending as much time in the basement the last couple years. It had made Tweek feel almost wistful, with the loneliness that came with prolonged solitude. After the sex was over and he could relax, Tweek found he sometimes enjoyed having Ghost there to talk to.

“Remember when we used to walk around and look at the lights together?” Tweek asks when Craig shows up late that evening. He had had to meet up with Clyde and Annie for a project they were working on for history after class but Tweek hadn't worried since Craig had texted him ahead of time.

“The Christmas lights? Yeah.” Craig nods. There's still no snow outside. Tweek is starting to worry that it might never snow. Maybe his escape had jinxed it for everybody. “We always went to the tree lighting ceremony too.”

“I, I forgot about that,” Tweek admitted. “Did we miss it already?”

“It was last Friday,” Craig says. “I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd want to go. We can still go look at the lights if you want?”

“No, you're right,” Tweek shrugs, feeling sad for some reason he cannot explain. “It's too cold out, I wouldn't have wanted to go. It's too cold to go look at lights.”

“Not if we drive? We can go check out the rich houses?”

That sounds nice. He wishes there was snow out for it though. Christmas decorations always look better in snow. He likes how they glow red and green and orange against the blue white of nighttime snow.

But if they stay here his mother will just be hovering around, looking for an excuse to send Craig home. Oh Craig, Tweek is tired. Oh Craig, Tweek is upset. Oh Craig, Tweek needs to have his diaper changed. He's so sick of her always trying to run his life. Six months ago he was used to spending 20 hours a day alone, he knows how to take care of himself.

“Let me get my coat,” he decides. He also grabs his scarf. Even though it should be warm in the car this feels like a scarf-wearing activity. Craig stops at Harbucks on the way to the rich side of town and they both get hot chocolate to sip at while they drive.

They drive slowly around each neighborhood and Craig pushes up the divider between the seats so Tweek can scoot up close to him, Craig's right arm around him as he steers with the left. The radio is playing Christmas carols. It's still weeks until Christmas but it doesn't matter.

They see houses with strobe lights. Houses with fake Santas falling off the roof. Houses with lights synchronized to the music. They see some houses that are so lit up they can be seen for miles. Other houses have little more than a single string of lights on the porch. Tweek's favorite is one set up as “Candy Cane Lane” with an entire miniature Christmas village set up front. They get out of the car so they can fully inspect the village better, it takes up the entire front yard. The owners have a basket out front with free candy canes available. Tweek shakes his head when Craig asks if he wants one. Craig likes the one with the Grinch sneaking down the chimney, his bulging sack on the sleigh in front.

Eventually they need to head back into town because Craig needs to fill up on gas. Tweek is starting to get bored at this point so he tells him he's ready to head home but Craig suggests they grab dinner somewhere instead. Tweek knows his mother will be upset, she probably has dinner started, but he texts her to let her know that Craig is taking him out for food.

They go to Applebees because they have a two for one deal on entrees right now. As Craig orders for both of them Tweek wonders to himself if they're on a date. He hopes so. He thinks Craig is his boyfriend now but he didn't say this was a date. Are all outings between boyfriends automatically classified as a date?

A stocky brunette interrupts Tweek's train of thought as he appears suddenly, shoving at Craig as he joins them in their booth.

“Finally letting him out of his fairy tale tower, Craig?” the boy taunts, stealing a fry from Craig's plate. “About time. I was starting to think he was still turned into a frog.”

Tweek doesn't say anything. He wrings his hands on his lap and averts his eyes. He doesn't know this boy. Is this Eric Cartman? He remembers Cartman having brown hair and being stocky. He hates that he can't recognize people anymore.

“Tweek, you remember Clyde,” Craig's voice oozes annoyance.

Clyde Donovan? This is Clyde? This doesn't look like his old friend. He's so much bigger. Well, everyone is bigger. But he is big big. Wide shouldered, barrel chested. Craig is tall but he still has the same thin, angular face. Clyde has a cleft in his chin and his nose looks weird, like maybe it had been broken and badly reset.

“Bebe,” the boy hollers out, “Come on, I told you they won't mind. Get over here!”

“This is why she keeps breaking up with you,” Craig mutters.

A pretty blond woman walks to their table. She's curvy in a way that Tweek finds beautiful but he knows doesn't quite fit the society ideal. Her hair is curly and a lighter blond than he remembered it being, platinum he thinks the term for it is.

“Clyde, you can't just sit wherever you want. You need to wait to be seated.”

“We're at Applebees, not Chez French,” Clyde rolls his eyes, mouth full as he shoves in another fry. He pronounces Chez as it's spelled.

“I'm sorry about this you guys,” she smiles apologetically.

“It's fine, just sit down,” Craig gives in, waving at her to take the seat next to Tweek. He scoots in up against the wall and Craig does the same so they're still sitting across from each other.

Tweek doesn't want to be around these people. Not right now. He knows he should, eventually, but this might be Craig and his first date and he doesn't want it interrupted. Besides, he feels like he needs to prepare for a situation like this. He can't have this just thrown at him. Maybe if he knew about it ahead of time, had the opportunity to build up a protective shell. Right now he feels vulnerable, like his mushy insides are exposed for everybody to see.

“It's good to see you, Tweek,” Bebe pats him on the leg. “I love your scarf.”

“Oh, uh, I like your-” for some reason the word “tits” pops into mind and he supposes that's because they're huge and sort of the first thing that stands out to him about her, but he knows that's not something he can say to her, “purse?”

“It's a clutch,” she corrects, “But thanks!”

The waitress seems annoyed that two people have randomly sat at her table but she takes their orders anyway. Bebe orders a chicken salad while Clyde gets some cheeseburger. Tweek picks at his coconut shrimp. Craig helps himself to his fries without asking and Tweek isn't sure if he should feel annoyed over this or not. Yes, he probably wasn't going to eat them and Clyde had eaten half of Craig's, but he could have asked. On the other hand, it saved Tweek the embarrassment of having to explain why he wasn't finishing his food. It wasn't that he didn't like to eat, he just got fully quickly. The shrimp was good.

“So, Tweek,” Clyde waves a fry at him. “How are you liking being back in the real world?”

“It's...good?” Tweek isn't sure how he should answer that? It sucks Clyde. I totally wish I was back in my basement being sodomized by a middle aged man?

“Craig won't tell us anything about you. Is it true he castrated you?”

“What?”

“Clyde, stop it,” Craig hisses. “If you're going to sit with us you can't be a dick.”

“I'm not! I'm just asking him some questions. Well Craig? You should know? Is Tweek ball-less?”

“Stop it,” Bebe hits him on the arm. “You're being an asshole. Ignore him, Tweek.”

“It's not like it's not something he hasn't just read in the papers.”

“I don't read the papers,” Tweek mumbles.

“You saw the papers, babe,” Clyde directs this remark to Bebe. “They said in it his genitals were 'altered.' What else could that mean? Dude, he didn't cut it off entirely?”

Tweek couldn't believe they would print that. Altered? There had been an incident where Ghost had brought in a man to circumcise him, the first month he was there. It was the only other man he had ever allowed near him and Tweek had always been blindfolded during it. It was the same man who gave him his shots and checked his teeth. He had also been the man who had marked him. He recognized him by his voice and how he always smelled like something spicy.

“Clyde, I'll seriously punch you in the fucking face. Leave. Now.”

“Fine, fine, I'm dropping it. God, what are you, a momma bear? Hey Tweek, we have a game this weekend. Wanna come?”

He shakes his head. His hands are trembling in his lap. He wants Craig to hold him.

Bebe excuses herself to use the bathroom and Tweek mumbles that he had to go as well. He follows after her, grabbing a few paper towels from the boy's bathroom to wipe his face, and then slips out the front entrance.

He's been walking for nearly ten minutes before his phone buzzes in his pocket

'Where are you?'

'I don't know.'

'What are you by?'

'I passed a lamp store.'

'Just stay there. I'll find you.'

Craig's lip is split when Tweek gets into the car. There's a scrape on his knuckles. Tweek doesn't mention either of them.

“Let's get you home.”

“I'm sorry I didn't finish dinner.”

“Don't be. Clyde's covering the bill.”

“I don't want to go home.”

“I know,” Craig sighs. He leans back in the driver's seat and pushes his hands through his hair, sighing again. “I don't know what to do.”

“We could go by the lake?”

“Do you want to do that?”  
“Yes? Maybe? I don't know. But I don't want to go home.”

Craig puts the car back in drive. Tweek leans his cheek head against the window and watches the scenery blur by. The Christmas lights don't look as festive anymore. The green/brown grass on the houses look depressing against the lights.

He doesn't take the turn to the pond. He goes the opposite way. They're at the elementary school. The same one where they had first met. The same one where they had walked through the hallways holding hands and gotten in trouble for passing notes during class.

Craig leads him to the swing set. It's cold out still but Tweek feels hot from walking and being in the overly-warm car. Still, Craig gives him his gloves before gripping onto the metal chains and kicking off. Tweek slips them on and takes the swing beside him. He follows Craig's lead, stretching his legs out farther and farther until he's nearly even with the bar on top.

“Do you remember when we used to try to go all the way over?” Craig calls to him.

“I always faked it,” Tweek calls back, “I was too scared.”

“Yeah, I knew you were. I just didn't say anything.”

Tweek tires out quickly. He always does. He feels winded and the coldness of the air burns his lungs. He stops pumping his legs, letting his body slowly come to a stop. Craig continues to swing for awhile longer then joins him in his stationary position.

“You warm enough?”

Tweek nods. Craig reaches across the space for him, taking his hand.

“Sorry about that. Sorry that Clyde fucked up our date.”

“Was it a date?”

“I, I'd like to think it was,” Craig stammers. Tweek finds that endearing. Craig didn't do that very often. He grounds his toes into the pavement and pushes his swing closer to Craig's.

“I'd like to think so too.”

Craig copies Tweek's movement, pushing his feet against the pavement and himself closer to Tweek. It's the first time they have kissed since Thanksgiving. This kiss is chaste. Sweet. Craig's lips are cool and dry. Tweek doesn't feel aroused by it. He wonders if he should.

“I don't care what he did to you, you know, down there,” Craig tells him, nudging his cold nose into Tweek's cheek. His breath feels nice on his skin. “I've always loved you. Castrated or not.”

“I'm not castrated,” Tweek assures him, surprising himself with this laugh that forces itself out from between his lips. He nuzzles back against Craig's face. “He just, um, he cut off the skin?”

“The foreskin?”

“Y, yeah. That.”

“That's..that's really weird dude,” Craig lifts his feet and the swing sways back into place, turning in a half circle along the way. Craig keeps his feet lifted from the ground and watches how the earth beneath him moves below the swing.“Was he Jewish?”

“He said they look cuter this way,” Tweek shrugs, watching Craig. He's wearing a navy pea coat that fits him well. He doesn't look cold. Tweek is starting to feel cold again. “I mean, it hurt and all, but I guess it's not a big deal? A lot of people do it. I, I read that men who convert to Judaism have to have it done when they're adults. So. You know.”

“That still sounds like a pretty shitty thing to do to a kid,” Craig comments. He rests his feet on the ground and leans back, looking up towards the sky above. He's not looking at Tweek. Tweek is watching him but he's looking everywhere but at Tweek. “I mean, what if it got infected?”

“The guy gave me pills to make sure it didn't?” Tweek explained. He watched how the moonlight made Craig's eyes sparkle. It triggered something inside of Tweek. Something hot and gushy. He feels like he wants to join Craig on is swing.

“Ghost, you mean?”   
“No, the guy who did it.”

Finally Craig looks away from the heavens, eyes training on his boyfriend. He doesn't look disgusted. Maybe concerned?

“Somebody else knew about you?”

“Just him,” Tweek says, pushing a little with his feet. Just enough to give him a gentle back and forth sway. “He came every so often. He'd check my temperature and look at my teeth and sometimes give me shots. I never saw him. Ghost always made me wear a blindfold when he was around. I called him Chile, because of how he smelled.”

“Did he, did he...what Ghost did?”

Tweek shakes his head. Now it's his turn to avert his eyes. He can't look at Craig when Craig is looking at him like that. Especially not when he had just been looking at the other boy with the eyes of an adult. He found himself wanting to touch him.

“He never touched me like that,” Tweek bites at his lip. Not wanting to add the next part but thinking it's probably about time he brings it up to Craig. “He, uh, he took pictures, sometimes.”

“Pictures? What kind of pictures?” Craig's voice has gone flat.

“You know. The kind men will pay money for.” Tweek sighs and stops the movement of the swing. “Ghost didn't like that part but he told me it was for hush money. To keep Chile quiet.”

“And they haven't found him?”

Tweek shakes his head.

“I told the cops what I could about him. They're trying to trace him online through the pictures but they haven't had any luck yet.”

“The pictures are online?”

“I guess,” Tweek says. The tone of Craig's voice is making him feel anxious. “Ghost never told me that they would go online but the cops did.”

“I can't believe this,” Craig mutters, hunching forward, arms resting on his knees. “There's pictures of you online being abused.”

“I'm sorry,” Tweek whispers, his voice coming out hoarse, almost indecipherable.

“No,” Craig reaches for his hand, grabbing it. “Don't be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. I just want to kill these fuckers who would do that to you.”

“I don't think it's that big of a deal,” Tweek tries to comfort him. “They weren't that sexual. Nudes mostly. Um, sometimes they had my dress up. Like, as a girl. But Ghost would never let him take pictures of anything more than that.”

“Tweek, this is a big deal,” Craig insists “This is the shit people get sent away for a long time for. That asshole deserves to go to jail just as much as Johnson. I hope both of them get raped and murdered by a gang of Aryans.”

“Craig!” Tweek squeaks out. “Don't say that!”

“Why not?” the older boy fumes. “I would strangle Johnson myself if I had the opportunity.”

“I, I don't want him dead,” Tweek says, regretting the words the moment they escape his lips. And deep down he supposes he had already known that. He doesn't want Ghost dead. Punished, yes. Locked away for life, yes. But part of him still remembers the Ghost that made Christmas ornaments with him and hid eggs for Easter and let him dress up as whatever he wanted for Halloween. As much as he hates Ghost. As much as he's still terrified by the very idea of being near him. Something inside him cares just enough that he doesn't want to see him dead.

“How can you not want him dead?”

“I just don't, okay?”

“He stole you! He took you away from me for so many years!”

“I know, I know,” Tweek is crying now and he rubs at his face. The fabric of Craig's gloves feel harsh against his skin and he feels guilty for staining them with his tears. “But he's not like, the devil incarnate or anything, you know? He, he took care of me. He bought me toys all the time. Once I was really sick for three straight days and he just stayed with me and cleaned up after me every time I threw up and put me in the bath to break my fever. He didn't have to do that. He didn't have to be nice to me.”

“But he didn't think about taking you to the hospital either, did he?”

“That's what Chile was there for! He would've called him if I had gotten any worse!”

Tweek doesn't see or hear Craig get off the swing or walk over. But Craig is already kneeling at Tweek's feet, his arms going his waist. He returns the gesture, his arms going around Craig's shoulder. He buries his face in Craig's hair. He smells like cheap shampoo.

“I'm sorry,” Craig says. He doesn't say what he's sorry for. Tweek isn't sure. There's a lot of things Craig could be sorry about.

At least Craig is warm. He feels good there, his head pressed against Tweek's chest. A barrier to the early December wind. Tweek feels tired. He closes his eyes and just nuzzles his face deeper into Craig's hair, resting his eyes. He listens to Craig's breathing and the more distant sounds of cars driving, people talking in soft murmurs.

He's stopped crying.

“Hey, look,” Craig says, pulling back a few inches. Tweek's eyes feel heavy as he looks at him. Craig's face is tilted upwards once more, towards the sky. Tweek lifts his head as well. He sees the blackness of the sky. He can see Orion's belt. He sees a bunch more other stars he doesn't know the names of, shimmering and glowing billions of miles away.

Then he sees that some of the stars are falling from the sky. Slowly. Growing bigger and bigger as they descend, one of them landing on Tweek's nose.

“It's snowing,” he says in awe.


	9. Craig

“He just overreacted because he's like, fucked up and shit,” Clyde insists for the eighteenth time in the last week as he scrubs his fingers through his short brown hair. Craig is pretty sure that might be the least hairy part of his body. Who knew seventeen-year-olds can even be that hairy? He has a chest like a Chia Pet and Craig doesn't even know how he keeps all that pit hair inside when he's wearing long sleeves. A bit longer and it'd be reaching his elbows. Craig thinks of how light colored and almost invisible the blond hair is on Tweek's forearms. Fuzzy like a baby duck. “I'm sorry if I freaked him out but I thought he'd get annoyed if I treated him like a baby. I wasn't being a dick. And by the way, stop staring at mine, Craig.”

“Like you'd ever have the pleasure of me wanting to see your dick,” Craig scoffs, turning his back to Clyde out of habit, letting the water slap against his back. He runs his hands down his own hairless chest, washing off the sweat from kickball. “It's like a SpaghettiO. The kind with those tiny little meatballs”

As far as schools go, theirs is very progressive about gays. Not quite as much as their elementary school, but nothing like the ones you see on television where the gay kids are being beaten and stuffed in locker. Still, navigating the locker room has always been a tricky situation for Craig. He usually tries to find a place alone to change and he tends to keep his back turned towards the other inhabitants. It's ridiculous, really. He might be gay but he doesn't find most of his classmates even remotely attractive. But there's something inside of him that just has the self conscious tinge. A few of the more ignorant boys have accused him of checking them out on occasion, calling him out to stop treating the locker room as his “own private peep show.” The few boys he did find mildly attractive; Kyle, Butters, that one goth kid with the red hair, weren't stupid enough to say shit like that.

Even Clyde isn't that stupid. He's joking. He's always taken Craig's sexuality in stride and Craig knows he has taken that for granted. When Tweek had disappeared all those years ago it had been Clyde who had helped keep Craig together. It had been Clyde available, with easy hugs and the complete absence of judgment, that Craig could turn to when he felt he couldn't cry in front of his family or other friends. As a kid, Clyde had been good with figuring people out. Very in tune with his own emotions and others. He used to cry a lot, Craig had sort of broken him out of that habit with his own childish taunting. He sort of wish he hadn't done that now.

But who knows, maybe too many tackles on the field had just broken that part of him. Maybe Craig wasn't responsible for that change in his friend at all.

Clyde is a good guy, really. He's a loud mouth and a jock and too caught up in his own popularity as of late, but he's not a bully.

“Well uh oh, stay away from my SpaghettiOs.”

Craig can't help snort out a laugh. He's an idiot but he is his best friend.

Clyde has put on a lot of muscle the last few years. He trained for football a lot more than he probably should and studied a lot less. He's so far from Craig's type that it's ridiculous. He's still shorter than Craig though, even if he weighs twice as much, mostly in muscle but he has a bit of a chub on his belly. It worked for the game.

He leaves Clyde alone to shower with the few stragglers in their gym class, heading to his locker to change back into his school clothes. He has to get to English before that old banshee they call a teacher tears into him again. She's been riding his ass for weeks now, just because he's been slacking on some of his work. Like he doesn't have more important things to worry about than an essay on some boring Shakespeare play.

Shakespeare was overrated anyway.

He had turned his phone off before gym to conserve the battery but he presses the on button for several seconds and set it on a nearby bench before beginning to dress. As usual he keeps his back to the others and keeps the towel around his waist until he had shimmied his boxers up under it. Really, that's pretty stupid since he was just flapping free in the shower with a half dozen teen guys, but whatever. He tosses the towel aside and reaches for his black skinny jeans.

His phone buzzes. Then it buzzes again. And again. And again.

Craig abandons his pants on the bench and just stands there in his boxers, reaching for his phone. He has sixteen text messages and four voicemails. They all show under the name Fluttery. Tweek has this thing about his name showing up under Craig's Contacts list, saying he doesn't want somebody to look over Craig's shoulder and know who he's texting in case of something incriminating, so he asked Craig to give him a nickname in his phone. He's listed as Colonel Sanders in Tweek's phone for some reason that he refuses to share. Craig doubts anybody would see the name Fluffernutter on his phone and think it was anybody but Tweek, but again, whatever.

He doesn't even check the messages. The phone starts to buzz with an incoming call and he answers it immediately.

“Tweek, what's wrong honey?”

“N, nothing, I mean, I'm okay, I just,” the voice across the phone swallows back what sounds like a sob. There's the sound of revving engines in the background. “Can you c, come get me?”

“Where are you?” Craig looks up. A couple of the boys are watching him, curiosity evident in their expressions. Clyde emerges around the corner, hair dripping, towel around his waist. He turns away from them all, back towards the locker.

“Denver. At the d, doctor's.”

“Did something happen?”

“No. Yes. I lost my bus money. I'll, I'll tell you the rest later.”

“Leaving now. Find somewhere to go right now that's warm, okay?” A damp hand touches his lower back. He hears Clyde murmuring if everything is okay. He puts up a finger to let him know he can't talk yet.

“I'm at a Starbucks but they're glaring at me for not buying anything.”

“If they bother you just tell them your date is running late.”

“Okay, Craig.”

Clyde asks again if everything is okay. Craig gives him a sterilized explanation, leaving out the part about the doctor and the crying, and asks him to have Token take notes for him in English.

It takes over an hour for him to reach Denver and another fifteen minutes until he finds the Starbucks near Tweek's doctor. He's sitting at the side counter closest to the door, despite there being plenty of empty armchairs and other more comfortable looking seats available. Even before entering, Craig can see him wiping at his eyes. He's pulled his body up close, legs close together, both arms around his body, trying to look smaller. He is succeeding. He looks more like a twelve-year-old than an eighteen-year-old.

Craig takes long steps to him and hugs him, kissing his forehead. Tweek collapses against him, looking exhausted.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” he says loudly. “I'll order for us both. What do you want?”

“To drink?”

“Yeah. What do you want to drink?”

“Um,” Tweek glances up at the menu, his eyes skimming quickly. “A salted caramel mocha?”

Craig starts. He had been expecting a chai tea or a hot chocolate.

“That has coffee.”

“Yeah, I, I know. It sounds good.” Tweek bites at one of his nails. Craig doesn't have the heart to remind him he's trying to avoid caffeine.

“If you're sure,” Craig relents. He hasn't seen Tweek drink coffee in the last month. Maybe the smell of it in the air is irresistible. He normally hates coffee but has to admit it smells tempting when you're inside a warm Starbucks on a winter day.

He order two of the same thing and asks Tweek if he wants to sit down in one of the chairs by the window to drink them. He asks if they can just leave.

Craig opens the door for Tweek before letting himself into the driver's side. The blond takes a similar position as Craig had found him inside, all withdrawn into himself. But he isn't crying. He sips at the hot drink and sniffles a bit, his nose still running. Craig turns up the heater, knowing Tweek gets cold easily now a days. Tweek fidgets with the radio dial, jumping through modern hits and stopping on an oldies station. They listen to The Gambler droning on about playing cards and drinking whiskey.

He waits until they're on the outskirts of Denver before telling Craig what happened.

“I walked out of my appointment after ten minutes.” he confesses, keeping his gaze on the tree passing outside. There's no snow on the ground yet. It's snowed a few times in the last few weeks but it hasn't stuck. The grass looks gray and the tree looks dead and barren. “I took the money out for the bus fair and put it in my lap and then checked my phone to see when the next stop was and when I looked down my money was gone. I, I don't know if it just blew away or somebody took it. I'm an idiot.”

“You're not,” Craig assures him. The gray winter light is washing over Tweek through the window and it makes him look beautiful in an insubstantial way. Washed out and pale, even the brightness of his yellow hair subdued. Like he belonged in a Tim Burton movie. “You were upset and probably having trouble concentrating. I don't mind skipping the last few periods and driving over to see you, believe me.”

“I should be able to do this shit on my own,” Tweek bites out through gritted teeth. He hits himself on the leg hard, his bony hand thwacking against his jeans. Craig grabs his hands to stop him from doing it again. “My mother is right. I'm helpless. I don't know how to do anything. I don't know how to be an independent adult.”

“You don't need to do everything on your own,” Craig lifts Tweek's fist to his hand and kisses each knuckle, keeping his eyes on the road. He has surprisingly long fingers, thin and elegant. Piano player fingers. Maybe his mother was right about him being a natural musician. Maybe he could've worked up to something. “I'm here to do it with you.”

“I don't need a guardian. I'm eighteen.” Tweek looks over at Craig, glancing down at where their hands meet. He looks away again, back outside.

“No, you don't. But everybody needs a little help now and then. Tell me why you walked out of your appointment?”

“I'm done with him,” Tweek huffs, pulling his hand back from Craig's angrily. It hurts but Craig know he's not angry at him. He's angry at his doctor, at himself, at the world, but not at Craig. “He kept asking me all this shit about Santa and Father Christmas and Ghost. He was like, he was like trying to convince me I should be terrified by Santa, or turned on by him, I'm not sure exactly. I was just waiting for him to ask me if I wanted to try sitting on a mall Santa's lap.” He runs his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face.

“That's...that's super retarded. Why would he ask that?”

“Because Ghost looked like Father Christmas that first night, I guess,” Tweek sighs. “And he used to wear that same outfit every Christmas. I'm pretty sure it was just a store-bought Father Christmas costume. You know, like British Santa? But I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to catch sight of a Salvation Army Santa and start shrieking at him to not touch my no no or something.”

“Guy sounds like a quack. Somebody needs to tell him nobody follows Freud anymore.”

“I'm not going back there,” Tweek informs him, very matter-of-fact. His jaw is set. It's sort of an attractive look on him, his gauntness making him look like a model.

“You don't have to,” Craig assures him. He glances at one of the billboards they pass by, fearing for a second they missed their exit. Not yet. “I think it's stupid you have to come all the way out here every single day anyway. We'll find you somebody in South Park, or maybe North Park if you'd prefer.”

“No,” Tweek shakes his head quickly. “I'm done with shrinks. They're useless. I don't want to waste an hour of my life every damn day remembering the shit that happened to me. I just want to forget about it. Did I tell you I've started looking into getting my GED? If I work hard maybe I'll be able to start college next fall. Though most likely it'll be the spring after that, at the earliest.”

“That's great, honey. But do you really think it's a good idea to just stop seeing somebody? What about your meds?”

“Butters says there's a doctor in town that will prescribe anything after a two minute visit. I can just go see him for the meds. I need to pee, can we stop somewhere soon?”

Craig doesn't like the idea of some quack just throwing meds at his boyfriend but he can tell by the mood Tweek is in he's not going to be able to convince him of anything right now. He'll give him a few days to cool off.

“Do you want me to help you study for the GED?” he asks instead, as he pulls off the freeway with a sign leading to a small town that Craig has been to a few times. They have a restaurant there that his father likes, they serve a lobster buffet on Tuesdays. He's too poor to afford that place but they stop at a ramen place and Tweek uses the bathroom as he orders them a bowl of spicy tonkotsu ramen and a bowl of black garlic ramen. He lets Tweek choose which one he prefers and he surprises him by going for the spicy.

“I've never had ramen that isn't instant,” he says as he dabs at some broth that splattered onto his chin. “This is amazing.”

“It's good weather for it,” Craig adds. “Each your egg before it cooks too much in the broth.”

The ramen makes Tweek feel overheated and he keeps pushing his hair out of the way. Craig uses the bathroom before leaving and it wowed by the heated toilet seat and somewhat horrified by the bidet. Afterwards they walk down the block until they find a barbershop.

“Not too much,” Craig hovers around, instructing the geriatric old barber. “Maybe chin length? What do you think?”

“Yeah, that should be okay.” Tweek says. “If it's still too long it's easier to cut it off than grow it back.”

Tweek grips the armrests of the seat the entire time, looking tense and uncomfortable at having a stranger so close to his face, but he doesn't bolt. Maybe the man senses his discomfort because he doesn't spend a long time perfecting and snipping away like most barbers Craig has been to. Or maybe he's just a shitty barber.

He's happy with it at chin length. It looks good on him, sort of shaggy. It looks fluffier too, without the weight of it down his back. The old man cut off over a foot. Tweek nudges at it with his toe. Craig is glad to see it gone. He wonders if Tweek's mom will be ecstatic or go ape shit over his hair.

Tweek's mom doesn't find out that he's stopped going to his sessions for a week. Only when the doctor's receptionist finally calls her, asking something about faxing over insurance information to Tweek's new doctor, does she learn of the development. Craig is with Tweek at the house when she comes home from work, enraged. Tweek rolls his eyes and ignores her, turning up the volume on the television. Craig pulls him closer against his chest, wanting to shield his boyfriend from that harpy. They escape the house when she goes upstairs to change out of her nurse's uniform, declaring they would continue this conversation in a minute.

Craig doesn't even ask him where he wants to go. He just slams the car in reverse and gets the hell out of Dodge.

He takes Tweek to his own house and tells his mother to tell Mrs. Tweak they're not there if she calls. After the Thanksgiving incident she doesn't question him. They both turn off their phones and throw them on Craig's desk. Craig collapses onto his bed, his left knee arched, his right arm thrown out. Tweek lays beside him, resting his head on Craig's pillow. Craig watches him for a moment. The way he blinks. The way his breath causes his stomach to rise and fall.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you want to watch something on my laptop?”

Tweek shakes his head.

“Just wanna lie here.”

Craig nods. That's all he wants to do too. It's only four but they're nearing the shortest day of the year so it's pretty dark without the lights on. Another hour and you'll be able to see the stars glowing on his ceiling.

He turns onto his side and Tweek does the same, their noses almost touching.

Stripe makes some sort of ruffling sound in his cage. Woodchips scattering. Goes quiet again.

He hasn't been this close to Tweek in awhile. Not nose to nose like this. There's a scattering of freckles on Tweek's nose and cheeks. So light he never noticed them before. The blueness of his eyes makes his skin seem to glow.

“I love you,” he tells him, setting the hand that isn't trapped under the other boy's side on the soft hair above his temple. “I've always loved you and always will, no matter what happens.”

Tweek's eyes shift and Craig gets the feeling he's inspecting him. Looking at his eyes, his nose, his lips. He nods, not responding to Craig's declaration.

“You're beautiful,” he tells Craig instead.

That statement catches Craig by surprise. He laughs. Beautiful? Nobody has ever called him beautiful. Handsome, maybe, cute, he's even gotten the occasional hot from some of the younger girls in school. But beautiful?

“You're way more beautiful than me,” he tells the blond. “I think you're the most beautiful person in the world.”

“I wish I had your hair,” Tweek tells him, “And your skin. And your eyes.”

“And my lips?”  
“Nah, my lips are better.”

Craig chuckles and kisses the tip of Tweek's nose.

“Your nose is better too.”

“It's too big.”

“Nah, it's perfect. The more to love.”

The freckles on Tweek's face disappear into his flush. But he's smiling.

“Craig, can I kiss you? Like, kiss kiss?”

“Yes, I'm comfortable with that.”

It's not like Thanksgiving. It's slower and Tweek doesn't taste like herbs. He lets Craig take turns being in control this time, opening his mouth and allowing Craig entrance, rather than just trying to jam his tongue down Craig's throat. He likes that. He likes taking turns. It also lasts a lot longer. They're still making out when Craig's stars start to glow and his mom calls from downstairs that dinner is ready. By then Craig has managed to pin Tweek beneath him and he's all frizzy hair and hot skin. Craig can feel that Tweek is hard beneath him. When the blond attempts to push up against him, searching for some sort of friction, Craig pulls his body back. He doesn't want Tweek to feel he's aroused. He doesn't want Tweek to try to initiate anything. He just wants to keep kissing him. Tweek may think he's ready but he's not.

Tweek whines pathetically, his hands groping at Craig's ass. He's trying to pull him down on top of him. Craig reacts by planting his hands on Tweek's hips, holding them down, holding him still. He gives Tweek's tongue one last stroke with his own and pulls back, sitting up. Tweek is pink and his lips are swollen and his hair has devolved into matted rat's nest territory. Craig chuckles.

“Come on, let's see what mom made for dinner.”


	10. Tweek

He's done it again. Bailed out on being an adult and called Craig while he was at school, crying to come pick him up. It's not fair to Craig. He already wastes so much of his little free time seeing to Tweek's problems. Why can't he just do this? It's not like he doesn't want to see Ghost locked away.

But the trial seems so close and so daunting. Today is only a week from Christmas. He shouldn't have to spend the week before Christmas going over everything again and again with some lawyer who looks at him like he's a piece of trash. Everybody has told him this is an open and shut case so why does he have to testify? Why does he have to expose every little detail of his life with that pervert to a bunch of strangers?

They made him look at the pictures today. Evidence, they say. He needs to be able to look at them without breaking down because they'll be asking him questions about them at the trial. He doesn't want them to be shown but the lawyers are insisting on it. Shouldn't he have some say over pictures of his own body? How is talking about being raped a thousand times and showing off photographs of himself as a ten-year-old boy in girl's underwear going to make him feel better? Don't they understand how this is just making everything worse?

There's been talk about a plea deal but his mother keeps saying no to the idea.

He'd rather just take the deal. Why does he let his mother make these decisions? He just wants to forget about everything. He doesn't want to testify. He doesn't want to see Ghost again. He doesn't want to think about anything from his past life.

By the time they had gotten to the fourth picture, one where he looked about twelve and had been wearing only cowboy boots, a gun holster, and a handkerchief, he was just done. He had never seen himself in a mirror or anything when all these pictures were taken. He had been blindfolded. Hell, he doesn't even remember ever wearing the cowboys boots so how could he be any help testifying with that? His lawyer told him it didn't matter if he remembered doing it or not. He'd reacted by sweeping his arm across the desk, knocking off all the pictures as well as a bunch of other papers and the lawyer's coffee. The lawyer hadn't looked happy but he'd allowed Tweek to leave his office, for now.

Craig's car rolls up beside him at the sidewalk. He climbs in and clicks his seat belt into place, not saying a word to his boyfriend. Craig reaches for his hand but Tweek pulls it back, huffing out his nose in annoyance.

The older boy's touches are starting to grate on him. He won't touch him in a remotely sexual manner and to be frank, it's starting to make Tweek feel like shit. They're both adults. Tweek has been extremely obvious about his wish to go further with him. But Craig keeps pushing him away, refusing to even look at him naked. He's pretty sure Craig is disgusted by the idea of doing anything sexual with him. He never gets hard when they kiss. He's probably like his mom. He probably just looks at him and just sees some scrawny kid pinned underneath a wheezing middle-aged man. He know he's damaged and he can't really blame Craig for not wanting to touch him but he's starting to get beyond frustrated. Sexually frustrated.

He still can't force himself to masturbate. The dreams still come.

“Where do you want to go?” Craig asks, his voice distant sounding.

Tweek shrugs. What's it matter. They can't go back to Tweek's house, his mother would bitch about him bailing on the lawyer. Everywhere else is cold and boring. And full of faces that Tweek doesn't recognizes but who apparently recognize him. They've given up on going anywhere in South Park because somebody always recognizes them and comes up to them. Token, Stan, Kevin, Red. Is there some rule that if you recognize somebody out in public in this fucking town that you're obligated to come see them?

“My house?” Craig asks.

“Why? So we can roll around on your bed until you push me away as usual?”

Craig winces and Tweek doesn't feel guilty for making him do so.

“We could stay downstairs and play video games,” he offers instead.

“Fine, whatever.”

He's having a bad day. He knows that and he knows Craig knows it too. Craig hands him a PS4 controller and turns on some crappy first person shooter. Why are all video games the same damn thing now a days? Doesn't Craig own anything besides first person shooters?

Shooting zombies is pretty therapeutic though.

He's feeling better by the time Mr. Tucker gets home from work. The man pats Tweek on the head like he's a dog. He rolls his eyes but doesn't complain about it.

“Your mother is doing a shitty job at fattening you up, son.”

“I've gained five pounds this month,” he replies defensively.

“Your problem is you eat too slowly. You should drink your calories, they'll do it. Coach used to have us drink milkshakes to put on weight.”

'Maybe you should've stopped drinking them at some point,' Tweek thinks to himself, eyeing the obese man.

“Alcohol works too. Speaking of which... Craig, join me for a beer.”

“Dad,” Craig complains.

“You're eighteen now, son. If you're old enough to die for this country you're old enough for a beer.”

“Can I have one too?” Tweek intervenes. He's had beer before, but only sips here and there. Never with Ghost though. Ghost didn't like to promote anything too “adult” with Tweek. No complicated books. No PG movies. No coffee. No alcohol. No “mature” clothes. But pulling him up onto his knees and fucking him stupid? Totally kid friendly!

Mr. Tucker's face lights up.

“There we go! Of course you can have a beer. It'll be good for you.”

“Dad,” Craig complains again. “Tweek can't drink beer. It'll interfere with his medication.”

“I didn't take my meds today,” Tweek tells them. And while it's true he doesn't bother to mention he hasn't taken his drugs in over a week now. What's the point? He's not sick, he's broken. Giving him drugs is like trying to treat a sprained ankle with an antibiotic. All they did was make him feel fuzzy and tired all the time. Maybe if they had given him more than three days to adjust to everything instead of just forcing them on his right from the beginning they would've seen that.

Craig doesn't complain again. Mr. Tucker brings back three beers from the kitchen and hands out two of them. They're in bottles and Tweek can't get the top off. Craig opens it for him with the bottle opener on his keys.

“Sorry 'bout that,” Mr. Tucker apologizes. “I leave the fancy stuff for guests.”

The “fancy stuff” has a fish on it. It's bitter when Tweek takes a swig from it and burns more than he expected. It's not like the few sips of watery Coors his uncle had given him as a kid. He forces himself to take another swig. Craig watches him, sipping slowly at his own beer.

Mr. Tucker is one of those wanna be cool dads. He wants to join them playing games so Craig switches to another first person shooter that is almost identical to the first but allows three players. He gets into the game and swears at the television and throws the controller when he dies. Mrs. Tucker doesn't seem to be around this evening.

“She's helping set up my cousin's baby shower,” Craig explains when he asks about it.

Mr. Tucker finishes his beer and grabs another one for both him and Tweek. Craig is still nursing his. The bottle has a fish on it again but this time it's a different fish. It's not as bitter. He's sick of playing video games so he sets his controller aside and curls up against Craig, watching him play instead. Craig wraps his arm around his shoulders, holding him close as he pounds on the buttons of the controller. He kisses the top of his head every time he has a break. His beer goes warm on the coffee table.

Tweek's just finishing up his third beer and starting to feel sleepy when Mrs. Tucker arrives home. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and she throws a pile of mail on the table in front of them.

“Have any of you eaten?”

No, were they supposed to? She wasn't here to cook. What were they supposed to eat?

“The instructions were right on the lasagna,” she sighs. “Thomas, leave the boys alone. Come help me with the salad. The kale needs to be massaged. Oh, Craig, there's a letter for you in the mail.”

Craig turns off the PS4. He must've been getting bored too. He leans across Tweek, crushing him against his leg, and grabs the envelope with his name on it. Tweek watches him tear it open and pull out several pieces of paper. Craig's eyes move as he skims over it. He has pretty eyes. Green. Green like, like lily pads. Like the kind you see frogs sitting on surrounded by pink and white flowers. Ghost didn't like green eyes. He wouldn't have liked Craig. Just Butters. Maybe Kenny. No, not Kenny. Kenny wasn't innocent and naive enough for him. Ghost didn't like boys that talked like adults.

Craig folds up the papers, slip them back into the envelope, and tosses it aside. He looks upset. He's breathing heavily.

“You okay, babe?” the older boy asks as if Tweek is the one who just received some upsetting news. “You look tired.”

“What was in the envelope?” Tweek asks, ignoring his question.

“Just a letter.”

“What did it say?” Tweek prods.

“Nothing important.”

“I want to know,” he insists.

Craig shrugs lazily. He doesn't look at Tweek.

“It was an acceptance letter. To Fort Collins.” Craig says. Then, as if Tweek had just exploded on him, “I applied there before, well, you know. I'm not going, obviously.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because it's three hours away and you're here,” Craig said, explaining it slowly as if Tweek were a small child. “I've already applied to Park County Community College for the fall. We'll go to a four-year together once you pass your GED.”

“But you got in,” Tweek says. “There's no guarantee they'll accept you a second time. Didn't Denver and Boulder already send rejection letters?”

“Yeah, well,” Craig scratches at his head. “There's more important things than going to school.”

“You can't just not go to school in the fall! Everybody else will be!”

“Community college is still school! And it's cheaper. It'll be a good way to save money. Besides, it's easier to transfer to one of the four years from a community college than to just be accepted out of high school.”

Tweek shakes his head. Here he goes again. Fucking over Craig. Fucking up his life. He barely sees his other friends. He's had to skip out on class how many times just this month to deal with Tweek's bullshit? And he's not even attracted to him. Craig is stuck dating a boy out of some weird obligation that he has no interest in even fucking. He doesn't doubt Craig cares about him but how much of their relationship is just residual longing for a relationship that was cut prematurely? Where would they be if Tweek had never been taken? Craig would probably be dating some chick, or some guy more put together at the very least. And Tweek?

He has no idea where he would be now. Working at Tweek Bros?

“I don't want you waste a year of your life waiting for me,” Tweek insists, digging his fingers into Craig's shoulder. “You can't just pick up normal college life two years late. Don't you want to do the freshman dorm experience? Don't you want to be normal?”

“I knew from the moment we first kissed I would never be normal,” Craig smiles fondly at him. “Honey, you're drunk. Why don't we go take a nap? It'll be at least an hour until the lasagna is ready.”

“I'm not drunk!”

He allows Craig to pull him to his feet. The world tilts to one side. Maybe he's not drunk but he's definitely buzzed. Craig takes him to the bathroom and he has trouble aiming into the toilet. The tiles on each side seem to be moving like some weird optical illusion. It makes him feel slightly nauseous.

Craig leads him back to his bedroom. The room is shifting subtly, the stars on the ceiling smudged. He turns onto his side. The room stills.

“You're a lightweight,” Craig chuckles, kissing the back of his neck as he spoons him. “Just sleep. It's only six. You'll feel better after a nap.”

“I don't think I can sleep,” he mumbles back. He feels too disoriented.

But then he's in the basement and Craig is there with him. He's kneeling on one knee, his camera in hand. The film one he likes, the one he keeps in the closet beside the extra bag of wood chips for Stripe's cage.

“You can't take those to a developer,” Ghost speaks from behind Tweek. “If somebody sees them they'll know your dad gave him beer and they'll call the cops.”

“I can convert them to USB,” Craig tells Ghost.

Tweek looks down and sees he's wearing cowboy boots and silky pink panties with lace on the waist and leg holes. This isn't right. He doesn't match.

“I don't match,” he says aloud.

“Take off the panties then,” Ghost tells him. “But keep the boots on. The beer will soak into your socks if you take them off.”

That's what the wetness is around his feet? Beer? Tweek takes off his panties, one leg at a time. He's hairless down there.

“You're beautiful, Tweek,” Craig coos to him. “Touch yourself for me.”

“I can't.”

“Sure you can. Just grab it and pull.”

“But what if I pull too hard and it comes off? Clyde will make fun of me.”

“Let me do it instead,” Ghost murmurs against his neck. “You always like when I do it.”

He's hard when his eyes fly open. Ghost's breath is still hot against his neck.

No. It's Craig's breath. He's still in bed with Craig. They were taking a nap.

He turns on his phone and checks the time. It's nearly ten. That was a long nap. Why didn't Mrs. Tucker wake them up for dinner?

He's still hard. Painfully hard. It hurts. The want nearly makes him sob. He feels like he's dying from want. And Craig is right there. Craig could fill that hole for him so, so easily. He could wake Craig up with his mouth or his hand. He could bat his eyes and beg for it.

But Craig is impervious to begging.

Why doesn't Craig want him? He said he wanted him but he won't do it.

Tweek is careful as he slips from Craig's arms. Not careful enough. Craig lifts his head and blinked blearily at him.

“Where you going?”

“It's nearly ten. Gotta get home.”

“That late? Do you want me to drive you?”

“No, just go back to sleep.”

Craig nods and burrows back into his pillow. He's already out again by the time Tweek leaves the room.

The walk from Craig's house to Tweek's should only take a few minutes. But he isn't going home. He can't go home. Not like this. Not so aroused he feels like he's going to explode.

He's not old enough to drink so he hires a Yelp to take him to the only place he knows of that he could have any sort of release.

Tweek wasn't sure if it would still be open with the gentrification that took over the town. It seems like one of the first places to have gotten shut down. But no, it's still there. It's old and broken down. If the lights were off it'd look abandoned. But he can see the dim glow through the frosted windows. The White Swallow Spa is still in business.

The cover charge is ridiculously cheap. He's never been inside this place but he had been a gay kid inside of South Park. When you Googled “gay” and “South Park” together nearly ten years ago this place was one of the first places to show up.

He's shaking as he takes the towel and goes to the locker room. This place reeks of desperation and shame. Tweek should fit right in. Still, he's nervous. The locker room is full of men, some in towels, some naked. They're all older than him. And bigger than him. The lights are very dim inside the room and everything seems cold and metallic.

He removes his clothes and folds them neatly before putting them away in one of the lockers. The lockers themselves seem filthy, like he could catch something from just touching the handle.

The towel is surprisingly white and soft. Like one you'd get at a nice hotel. Like the one Tweek and his parents stayed at that one time in California when they went to Disneyland for spring break.

“Aren't you darling,” a voice surprises him. He hadn't seen anybody approach him. “You looking for a daddy for the night, sweetheart?”

A daddy? He's already had two. Sure, why not a third?

He turns to look at the man and for once he recognizes the person speaking to him. Unlike his old classmate this man has not changed much over the years. He has some gray along his temples now and he's a bit chubbier, the cleft on his chin looking a big jiggly.

Tweek wonders if Stephen Stotch recognizes him.

“Depends what kind of daddy,” Tweek says.

“I can be any kind of daddy you want, baby boy.”

Tweek lets him lead him to room 224. There's not much in there besides a bed and a light. It's dark. Confined. There are no windows. They're on the second floor but they could be in a basement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody really wants to read what happens here right? Like, I could write it...


	11. Craig

Christmas is in two days and Craig should be slacking off. That's what everyone else is doing, waiting until the day before Christmas vacation is over to slam out those papers and hurry through conjugating verbs for the homework that would be due the next day. Who thinks about checks and balances and geometry proofs two days before Christmas?

But here he is, first day of Christmas break at ten in the morning, surrounded by books.

They're not even his books.

Well, technically no school books are _his_ books, except for some of the paperbacks the English teacher requires the students to purchase, claiming it would be a positive step towards building their future libraries. But these books he has checked out of the school library for Tweek. Because Tweek is studying for his GED. Or he will be, once he gets here.

Craig has been waiting for over thirty minutes now and is starting to become worried. If he had been waiting on Clyde or Token or Jimmy (he feels a sting of pain at that thought) he would've just been impatient. But this is Tweek. They had not only planned to start precisely at ten but Tweek had even texted him at 9:30 saying he was on his way. Even with Tweek's semi-poor lung capacity it should've only taken him ten minutes to get here by foot. Tops.

Automatically his mind goes back to that morning so many years ago. It had been a Thursday, only two days until Valentine's Day, and Tricia had been annoying him about what he planned to do for their first Valentine's together. He was nine, what did she expect him to do? Take Tweek out to a fancy French restaurant and then take him to a hotel to make love to him? They were going to see a movie and eat at the Chipotle nearby.

Normally Tweek arrived at Craig's house before Tricia left. Tricia used to have a friend who's father drove by the school every morning on the way to work and he always dropped them off. But Craig and Tweek had to walk so they needed a few extra minutes to arrive on time. But the friend had already come and Tricia was gone and Tweek hadn't come. Annoyed, the boy had taken out his flip phone and texted Tweek, threatening to head out on his own if he wasn't on his doorstep in thirty seconds.

He wasn't on his doorstep in thirty seconds. Or thirty minutes. Or thirty hours. He didn't cross Craig's doorstep for over thirty-two hundred days.

Craig counted them all.

Now another thirty minutes has come and gone and Craig is starting to panic. He slams open his bedroom door and takes long strides down the door, ready to go out there and search the entire state of Colorado if need be.

He stops in his tracks when a quiet voice cuts through the air, muffled.

“If you did your navel your parents wouldn't see it.”

“But nobody else would either.”

Confused, Craig pounds on Tricia's door. She opens it, still wearing his pajamas, and rolls her eyes when she sees it's her brother.

“What do you want?” she demands, leaning against her doorway so he can't see into the room.

“What do you think?” he shoulders his way into her bedroom despite her protests. She hasn't inherited the family height and is even shorter than Tweek.

“Sorry,” said blond apologizes, standing up from where he had been sitting on his sister's bed. He's wearing an ugly Christmas sweater covered in dinosaurs swearing little Santa hats. “Tricia answered the door and she wanted to show me the dress she's wearing to the Christmas dance. I guess we got distracted.”

“It's not your fault,” Craig assures him. He knows how persuasive his sister can be and how much of a pushover Tweek can be. “Tricia, Tweek is here to see me, not you.”

“Tweek is my friend too,” she says, hands on her hips.

“Tweek is my boyfriend.”

“Sorry Tricia, but we have to hit the books,” Tweek apologizes. “Text me after the dance and let me knows how it goes?”

“Will do.”

Admittedly, even talking about clothes with a fourteen-year-old girl sounds more interesting than schoolwork.

Most people who take the GED are missing a few years of high school. Tweek is missing the last couple years of elementary, all of junior high, and all of high school. This makes figuring out where to begin a bit more difficult since they can't just start with a normal prep guide.

“Let's start with history,” Craig decides. “I don't feel like dealing with math or science until after the holidays.”

“Okay,” Tweek agrees, sitting across from him on the bed, legs folded beneath him. He looks adorable today. Craig thinks it's the dinosaur sweater. There's something cutely dorky about it. “Um, Ghost would let me read some history books. But only like, picture books.”

“Do you think you learned anything from them?” Craig asks, trying to not notice how pretty Tweek's eyes look today.  
“They weren't bad, actually. They weren't like, baby books or anything. But I mean, they were really specific. Like, he gave me one that was just about mummies but I didn't learn anything about pharaohs or anything in that one.” Tweek bites at his nails. His front teeth are just a little too big for his mouth in a way that makes him look unbelievably cute. “There was one about the founding fathers. And one on, um, the Great Wall of China. Like, stuff like that” Tweek goes quiet for a long moment but there's something about the way he looks that Craig knows he's not done speaking. He obviously wants to say something but he's thinking about or is afraid to say it or too embarrassed. He goes on after a good twenty second pause. “I, uh, once I tried to like, do a secret code in one of them. Because Ghost, he would get them out of the library, you know? He always checked them to make sure I didn't write anything in them or hide a note or something. But a few times I went through in order and put messages in them. Like, I'd use my apple juice and just lightly mark a letter on each page to spell out 'help me' or something. I did my name once. He never caught me but I guess I was too secretive about it, since nobody else did either.”

Craig imagines a younger, smaller version of this boy in front of him, sitting alone in a dark basement, waiting, hoping for somebody to just barge in and rescue him. Maybe Tweek would've imagined some other kid, maybe Craig himself, reading through the book and catching the clever clues like they were in some spy movie. He was probably proud of himself for even thinking of the idea. But nobody ever came for him. He would've just sat on that bed alone in that basement, day after day, week after week, month after month, staring at the door with shining eyes.

He doesn't know what to say to this confession and too many long awkward seconds pass to reply. He wants to hug Tweek but there's too many books and papers between them on the bed. The distance is too great.

“We should probably just start from the beginning,” Craig concedes, moving on. “But seventh and eighth grades were just like, eleventh grade lite. You know, a lot of it was repeated every year so we don't really need to go through eight years of school. Have you ever heard of the Sumerians?”

“The what?”

“Mesopotamia? The fertile crescent?”

Tweek shrugs, frowning.

“Guess I'm just an idiot.”

“Stop it, you're not. You just haven't had the opportunity to learn about it yet. We'll start there.”

Once Christmas break is over the plan is to have Tweek studying the same times of the day that Craig is in school. Everything Craig has read about homeschooling has emphasized the need to keep on a schedule to avoid procrastination. Craig has even found some great homeschooling resources online with lesson plans and homework and exams. But for now he wants to tutor Tweek hands on, get him back into the groove of things, and figure out where he is on the curve so he can help him pick which lessons he should be concentrating on.

It makes him feel helpful. He feels so helpless in so many other ways when it comes to assisting Tweek navigate his existence. It feels good to know he can help him in this small way.

They go through one of the history books Craig checked out for two hours, take a half hour break for lunch, then launch into English.

Tweek excels at English.

“Ghost was an English teacher,” Tweek says. “I never told you that?”

“No.” Craig replies. But now that he thinks about it he does remember seeing it in one of those early news articles. He's tried to not read anything after the first few days, not wanting to pry into the details. It felt like a violation of Tweek's privacy. But he does remember seeing that headline. English Teacher Abducted Young Boy.

“He taught at the middle school in Blue Springs.”

Blue Springs was the town where Tweek had been found. It was a two hour drive from South Park and Craig had never been there. Some sick part of him wants to visit, see the house where Tweek had been imprisoned beneath for nearly a decade. It's a sick fascination, like visiting a concentration camp. Craig wonders if the man ever tried anything with one of his students. But why would he need to risk it when he has a boy already waiting for him at home? A boy as beautiful and perfect as Tweek.

“But he only let you read picture books?”

“He only let me read picture books to myself,” Tweek explains. “He'd read me longer books out loud. A Little Princess, Peter Pan. We even went through the Harry Potter series, though he didn't give in until I was fifteen for that. He thought it was too mature.”

Craig isn't sure if the GED includes any essays. English is such a vague subject. Tweek has no trouble picking out the antagonist and protagonist and character foils. He already knows about exposition and climax and settings. Even children's books follow the basic structures of story telling.

“Let's take one of the practice tests and see what we need to do for the English portion,” he decides.

Tweek passes the first half on the first attempt. It's all about reading comprehension and understanding the deeper meaning behind work choices. The second half is an essay.

“I'm not sure how to help you write an essay,” he confesses. “He never made you write an essay, did he?”

“No. I don't know why he would.”

“Me either.”

“How about we look into that on some of the homeschooling sites. I hate writing essays. We can worry about it later.”

Tweek's mother shows up at two, beeping the car horn from the driveway to let him know she's waiting on him. Tweek sighs and starts gathering up his notes.

“Why can't she just text me? Stop by about seven?”

“I'll be there,” Craig promises. He gets up on his knees and leans over the pile of books between them to give his boyfriend a goodbye kiss as he walks by towards the door.“Text me if you need me.”

“I wish you could come with me.”

Tweek hates talking to his lawyers. He always spends the rest of the evening depressed or angry or a combination of both whenever he has to deal with them. Craig knows his boyfriend just wants to have the trial over and done with but he needs to see through this. Everything Craig has read about similar situations says seeing his abuser punished will help Tweek reach some closure.

Craig stacks up the books on his desk and stretches out the kinks in his back. His shoulders ache from being hunched over for so many hours. He only has a few hours to run his errand.

He dresses warmly in a pair of jeans and a red sweater. His mother is in the kitchen, puttering around. The downstairs smells like brownies.

“Where are you going?” she asks, turning to him as as he grabs his coat off the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

“Christmas shopping,” he replies. “I've already picked up gifts for everyone else but I need to get something for Tweek. He helped me pick out your present.”

“Do you know what you want to buy him?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Figured I'll walk around the mall and see what stands out. You need me to pick up anything?”

“No, we're all set for Christmas.” She takes off the oven mitts she's wearing and sets them on the counter. “Craig, give me a moment before you leave. I need to speak to you. Here, have a cookie.”

She holds out a plate overflowing with chocolate chip cookies and he grabs one without argument. He has a few minutes to spare for his own mother. Especially this close to Christmas when presents are eminent.

“What's up?”

“Let's sit down. This will only take a few minutes.” She waves at the chair closest to him and he pulls it out, a sense of dread overtaking him. It's not often that his mother asks him to sit down to talk.

“Did something happen?” he asks, his first thought concerning his grandmother. She was sick last month and though she had gotten better he knows how things can turn when you're getting in your 80's.

“I found this in the trash,” she announces, setting down a crumpled piece of paper on the table before him. It's stained with coffee grounds and something puke green colored.

Right. Of course. That letter.

“Just a letter.” He says nonchalantly.

“From Fort Collins? It says you were accepted.” She points at the “Congratulations” on the letter in the first sentence.

“I guess.” He says. Obviously she's read it so he can't argue with that.

“You just told me yesterday you received rejection letters from all the state universities.” She says. Craig knows that tone of voice. It's that “I'm trying to be a good mother so I'll let you explain yourself before I just end up grounding you anyway” voice.

“No, I told you that I haven't received any acceptance letters to any of the schools I wanted to go to,” he corrected her, just to make it clear he had not lied. “Denver rejected me.”

“Fort Collins is just as good as Denver.”

“It's too far,” he mumbles.

“You were prepared to drive that far five months ago,” she points out. “If I remember right you actually preferred it over Denver because of some major they offered?”

“Well things have changed since then.”

“This is about Tweek?” she guesses.

“I lost him for so many years,” Craig's voice chokes up. He hates himself for being like this. It's been nearly two months, you think he could talk about it without crying by now. “I can't be away from him again.”

His mother is better at this than him. She doesn't sway off topic. Doesn't go all soft and mushy and offer him another cookie. Craig has been accused of being overly logical his entire life and he knows exactly who he got that quality from.

“You kids are always on your phones now a days, you can text him anytime you want. And it's not too far to travel on the weekends. I think you should consider going to Fort Collins in the fall.”

“Mom, I've thought about it, believe me.” Craig lies to his own mother. He hasn't thought about it because there's nothing to think about it. Tweek needs him and he'd give his life for him. “But I can't do it. I need to stay here for him. I need to help him get his GED. Then we can go to school together. I know today was our first day of studying together but he's really dedicated to it and I bet he'll be able to pass the test by summer. We might be able to start together next spring.”

“If you don't start school next fall you know how much the likelihood of you ever going back is?” Is his mother a goddamn robot? Every logical argument he has and bam she's back at him.

“I'm going to go to the community college,” he reminds her, trying to come up ahead. “It'll help save money. I won't even have to live on campus.”

“You won't get the real college experience at a community college,” she says.

“I don't want the college experience. I want the, the Tweek experience. God, that's corny. But it's true. I'll get my degree and Tweek will get his and afterwards I plan on proposing to him. I need to get my degree so I can build a life with him. So don't worry mom, okay? I got this all figured out.”

“You're very young,” she cautions but there's resignation in her voice now. A tint of humanity. “You don't know where you will be four years from now. I'll support whatever you want to for now, and I'm fine with you living here while you go to school, but you have to go to school. I'm not overjoyed by the idea of you turning down this offer but you're an adult now.”

“Everything will be fine,” he assures, already pushing back from the table. He kisses her on the cheek and promises he'll be home in a couple hours.

He needs to find his boyfriend a perfect present.

* * *

 

It's freezing on Christmas morning. The air is so cold that every breath feels like ice crystals are forming on Craig's lungs. It snowed last night, a lot, and the plows haven't hit the streets. Which means that Craig cannot drive to Tweek's house and that he has to struggle through eighteen inches of snow on the sidewalks to reach his boyfriend. Carrying a giant box he can barely get his arms around.

But it's worth it. Tweek greets him with tousled hair, his face still creased from sleep. He's wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and one of Craig's old long-sleeved shirts. It's too small on Craig now but engulfs Tweek's small body, the arms hanging down so only the tips of his fingers show.

Tweek hugs him as Craig hurries to push him away, not wanting the snow to soak through his clothes.

“Let me get out of my clothes,” he says, already unbuttoning his heavy coat. He leaves his boots by the door and his scarf and gloves hanging off the coat rack. Then he grabs his boyfriend around the waist, pulling him close. He's so warm, fresh from the bed like a loaf from the oven, and he smells like sleepy boy. That might be Craig's favorite smell in the world. He rests his cheek on top of Tweek's head.

“Merry Christmas, honey.”

“Merry Christmas,” Tweek echoes. He nuzzles against Craig' throat. His breath smells like coffee. “Come into the kitchen. Mom's making Eggs Benedict.”

They eat sitting on the floor near the Christmas tree, Tweek's mom a few feet away on the couch. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is playing on the television.

“Do you want me to start a fire?” Craig asks, glancing at the black fireplace. “It's pretty cold out today.”

“That'd be very sweet of you, Craig,” Mrs. Tweak coos over him. “Richard used to keep that thing going all winter long but I've never been good at getting the fire going.”

As usual he's finished his food long before Tweek is. He arranges a few logs in the fire and fetches some ads off the kitchen counter to help it catch. He tucks the pages around the logs like his father taught him and digs around for some loose wood chips near the remaining logs by the fireplace. He can hear the old bearded dude singing to Rudolph about silver behind him.

The wood is very dry and catches well. He pokes at it a few minutes before pulling back.

Tweek's sitting there with his legs crossed, empty plate in his lap, just watching him. His socks are dirty and something about that is very endearing. Craig crawls over and kisses him on the nose.

“You two ready for presents?” Mrs. Tweak asks.

Like either of them would say no to that?

Tweek opens his presents from “Santa” first as Craig watches. He already opened his own presents this morning at four in the morning, when his sister had woken him up ready to go. There is a small gift from Mrs. Tweak in there as well. It's a gift card to Gamestop. Then Tweek gives his mom his present and Craig gives her a small one he had purchased for her. A bath gift set with bubble bath and candles. It's the same sort of gift his great grandmother always gives his sister. She tells him it's lovely and has them all smell the candle. It's Japanese Blossom scented.

They exchanged their presents to each other last. Tweek has given Craig a sweater. It's the softest sweater he's ever felt and is lined alternative blue and green stripes.

“This must've cost you a fortune,” Craig complains because it really looks too nice to be that cheap.

“Butters helped me knit it,” Tweek smiles shyly, “We started it while he was here for Thanksgiving break.”

“You knitted this?”

“Um, yeah,” Tweek scratches at the back of his head. “I thought about just baking you something but you know, I can do that whenever. Oh, I did make you some jawbreakers too. They're in the kitchen. I forgot to put them under the tree.”

“I can't believe you knitted this. It must've taken forever. I love you.” Craig kisses the top of his head, feeling self conscious doing so in front of the other boy's mother. He'd kiss him on the lips if she wasn't there. “My present isn't nearly as good but open yours.”

His present is showy in a very odd way. Tweek is staring at the box for a few seconds, trying to figure out what it even is. Craig feels bad for just going out and buying him a present when Tweek apparently spent hours upon hours slaving over this gorgeous sweater, infusing his love in every fiber.

But Tweek grins largely once he realizes what it is.

“Let's go set it up,” he cries out, jumping to his feet. “They're going to love it!”

Craig carries the box upstairs for him, Tweek grabbing a couple drinks for them.

The hamster habitat takes over an hour to set up. Tweek is more competent at it than Craig who keeps getting frustrated and letting out angry huffs in annoyance. When it's finished it must measure at least four feet long. There's tubes and little dens and running wheels everywhere.

“I always thought these things were so cool,” he confesses. “I love guinea pigs but they don't have any cool set ups for them like this.”

“I guess teddy bear hamsters aren't that bad,” Tweek concedes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else notice that Craig gets these fluffy chapters and then Tweek's are like all nightmares and sexual frustration?


	12. Tweek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably had too much fun writing this.

“I don't see why we have to go to this,” Tweek complains, pulling his coat tighter around him as he huddles in the passenger seat of his mother's car. She insists on running the air instead of the heater, saying it'll help defog the car faster. He's freezing.

“You'll have fun,” his mother insists. “You know Sheila. She always goes over the top for her New Years Eve parties. Pretty sure she's overcompensating for missing out on Christmas, if you ask me, but the food is great. And Craig will be there.”

“Craig would have been in my bedroom with me if you weren't dragging me here,” he reminds her. “He's only going to this because you're making me.”

“You and that boy need to stop being so selfish with each other. It's been two months, it's time for you to let the rest of the town in.”

Them being selfish with each other? Craig spends all day five days a week with all their old classmates. Tweek has spent five non-consecutive nights with random men at the bathhouse over the last couple weeks. Well, two of those nights were with Stephen Stotch and two of them had been with the high school art teacher, but still. That could hardly be considered being selfish with each other.

“I don't want to let the rest of the town in,” Tweek gripes. He checks his phone to see if Craig has texted him back yet. Nothing. He texted him nearly twenty minutes ago, what's taking so long? Maybe he's getting dressed. Maybe his phone died.

“Well sometimes you have to do things you don't want to do,” she snaps at him.

“Thanks for the lesson. I never would've figured that out on my own,” Tweek oozes sarcastically. “Never has anybody in my entire life forced me to do something I didn't want to do.”

“Oh for God's sake, stop it! You can't keep using your ordeal as an excuse to avoid doing things you don't want to do.”

“Why don't you try being forced to have sex with a man you hate for nearly a decade and see how you're doing making friends?”

“You don't think I haven't?” she says through gritted teeth. “It's called being married.”

To make matters worse, Craig isn't at the party yet when they arrive.

He does catch sight of Butters though, still home on Christmas vacation. He's hanging out with Kyle, Stan, and Kenny, sitting at a card table where the appear to be playing some sort of card games. There's a few empty chairs so he takes the one next to Butters. Stan's on the other side of him and he's good with that. There's something calming about Stan. Even as a kid he had been more laid back than other kids and the few times he's run into him lately he's seemed to have mellowed out to plant levels.

“Glad to see you made it,” Butters smiles at him.

“Hey, Tweek,” Stan greets him.

“Where's Craig?” Kyle asks.

“I don't know, he hasn't responded to my texts!”

“Maybe he's helping his mom trim her bush,” Kenny suggests.

“Gross,” Kyle wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Kenny, stop being a pervert.”

“Do you us to deal you in?” Stan asks, lifting his cards up a bit to indicate he's referring to their card game.

“N, no. I'll just watch, thanks.”

He doesn't even know what they're playing. Kyle lays down a six of spade, face up, and pulls a card from the deck on the table. Butters picks up the six and lays down a nine of clubs.

Tweek nearly jumps straight up when he feels a nudge against his thigh, his heart already in his throat.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Stan murmurs, keeping his voice down. Tweek glances down and sees where Stan is pressing a flask to his leg. “We gotta keep it on the down low with Kyle's parents around.”

“Not your fault,” the blond assures. He takes the flask from Stan but doesn't know what he should do with it. Butters hands him a can of Dr. Pepper from the other side.

“Chug about a third of this then top it off,” Butters whispers.

Thankful for the instructions, Tweek does as Butters tells him. He tries to be discrete, unscrewing the top off the flask beneath the table and pouring it carefully into the slit on the can but he feels like somebody must be able to hear the metallic scrape of the top or the sound of liquid pouring onto liquid.

He passes the flask back to Stan and waits about thirty seconds, just in case somebody was watching, before taking a sip. It's spicy and burns going down his throat. He can tell this isn't something you chug.

“It's Fireball,” Kyle says over his cards. “Don't let my mom catch you or she'll have you castrated.”

It takes a few sips but he finds he enjoys the taste of it once he has time for his mouth to get used to the sweet cinnamon flavor of it. When Craig arrives he takes the offered can from Tweek's hand, looking confused, and takes a sip from it, making a face.

“Who's got the Fireball?”

“Stan.” Tweek says.

“Keep it down,” Kyle hisses.

“Come on,” Craig pulls Tweek out of his chair. “Clyde texted saying he's downstairs with Token and Bebe. They're doing karaoke.”

“Karaoke?”

“Yeah. Bring your drink, it's more fun that way.”

“Welcome to the Basement of Debauchery!” Clyde had greets them upon entrance. Craig instant slaps him in the head and shoves him back on the couch.

“Fuck, I didn't even think about the fact this is a basement,” he curses, turning towards Tweek. “Do you need to go back upstairs?

Tweek glances around. There's a lot more people down here than Craig had mentioned. Wendy is here and Red and Annie, as well as Kevin and David.

“It was never this crowded. And it didn't have windows,” he says, pointing at the high set windows to one side. “Or a couch. No, I'm okay.”

He ended up not being that important for Tweek to have brought his drink along as Clyde apparently brought an entire backpack full of liquor, but he doesn't have any Fireball. Craig digs a Sprite out of a cooler in the basement's corner and tops it off with cheap gin. Tweek tries it and makes a face. It's disgusting.

Luckily there's a line of other kids waiting to perform so Tweek has time to get a buzz on before it's his and Craig's turn. They scroll through the songs available and settle on a duet of Sixpence None the Richer's Kiss Me.

It's a nice song but Tweek's voice is squeaky and Craig sings as monotone as he talks.

Craig takes his hand anyway, singing towards Tweek as he takes over on the chorus.

“Lift your open hand,” he drawls. “Strike up the band, and make the fireflies dance silvermoon's sparkling.”

Tweek bursts out laughing. Craig grins and shoves him. Then hurries to catch him as he falls into Bebe's lap.

Stan's gang eventually makes it down to the basement as Kevin, David, and Annie head up the stairs. The leader of the gang is already slurring his words and Kyle looks angry.

“Dude, I'll sing you the most beautiful song in existence,” Stan says, yanking the controller from Red's hands. “You can't be mad at me when I'm performing the most beautiful thing you ever heard.”

Kyle doesn't look impressed as the opening beats to Baby Got Back start to play.

Tweek is starting to feel hungry so head upstairs to the kitchen to check out Mrs. Broflovski's spread. There's the normal chips and vegetable platters but there's also sandwich platters. Subway, maybe, Tweek isn't sure. He gets a turkey sandwich and Craig grabs both a turkey and a roast beef. They're about to head downstairs when Mrs. Broflovski catches sight of Tweek and pounces.

“Tweek,” she greets enthusiastically, coming in for a hug, all stomach and giant breasts. She squeezes them into his face as he struggles to breathe. If he wasn't gay before he would be now. “Look how big you've gotten. And that hair! I have to work so hard to get my hair that big and look at you, blessed with such a beautiful head of giant hair. You're a lucky young man.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He says, at a loss for words.

“Is that all you're eating?” she asks, looking down at his plate. “We need to fatten you up. Here, let's get you some potato salad and a piece of pie. Do you like deviled eggs?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he says, reaching for the plate she's lifted for him. He'll take one, to be polite. He goes for the smallest looking egg and his hands bumps into something.

Somebody else's hand.

“Sorry,” he cries out, pulling back and looking up into the face of a surprised looking Stephen Stotch.

“I'll take one, too,” Craig interrupts, grabbing several of the eggs from the plate. He sets one on Tweek's plate, apparently not noticing the look that passes between Tweek and the older man. “Come on Tweek, let's go back downstairs.”

Stan doesn't have anymore Fireball but Kenny makes him a drink out of orange juice and whipped cream vodka. It's a bit heavier than he's craving and it tastes good. But his throat is getting sore from singing. Craig's drink may taste like shit but it is more refreshing. He gives his drink to Butters and Kenny makes him one with Sprite and vodka. The alcohol is more obvious in it but it's lighter. He sips at it as Craig performs Steal My Sunshine with him. Craig does the chick's lines.

Kyle cuts him off after the Sprite and vodka, claiming he's already drunk enough and if he keeps drinking he'll miss the countdown. Tweek isn't sure if he's really that drunk but he does feel sleepy. He drinks a Mountain Dew instead, his body already starting to crave the caffeine before he even opens the bottle.

At about eleven Craig announces Clyde wants to go outside to his car and smoke with him. It takes Tweek a moment to realize what he means. Craig smokes pot?  
“He's been feeling really lonely lately,” he says, nuzzling his face against Tweek's throat. “We always smoke in the car on New Years Eve, it's sort of our thing.”

“It's fine,” Tweek assures. “But, um, I'm pretty tired. Just, make sure I'm awake for the count down, okay?”

“Yeah of course.” Craig presses a few sloppy kisses against Tweek's throat. “We'll be like, twenty minutes, tops. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Clyde is giggling like a school girl, which is hilarious considering he's a teen boy who must weigh at least two hundred pounds.

Tweek sits alone on the couch and watches Wendy and Bebe perform Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. He hates this song. It was Ghost's favorite Christmas song.

He excuses himself on the “through the years we'll all be together” line and heads upstairs to find the bathroom. He surprisingly remembers the house pretty well, he never spent that much time here. The downstairs bathroom is locked. He heads up another flight of stairs to the second story. The upstairs bathroom sits vacant, door open, light off.

Tweek locks the door behind him and fumbles with his pants. Maybe he is drunk. He must piss for a solid thirty seconds. He washes his hands thoroughly after and uses some mouthwash next to the faucet to try to wash away the smell of alcohol on his breath.

Somebody pounds on the bathroom door.

“Coming,” he calls. “I'm just finishing up.”

He unlocks the door and goes to open it. Another body is already pushing their way in, pushing the door back closed again.

Stephen Stotch leers at him. “Got room for two?”

“No,” Tweek says, reaching for the doorknob as Stephen grabs him around the waist and pushes him back against the sink.

“I can't believe I didn't recognize you,” Stephen says, his hands already pawing at Tweek's chest. “Your face was all over the papers a couple months ago. I remember you from when you were just a little guy. You used to play with my Butters.” He pushes his hands up under the front of Tweek's shirt. His hands feel cold and damp. He squeezes at Tweek's chest as if he's looking for a pair of non existent breasts.

“I recognized you immediately,” Tweek replies icily. “Stop touching me.”

“I remember you used to tremble a lot back then,” Stephen ignores his request. He's pressing his crotch against Tweek's ass and Tweek can feel him through his jeans. He presses him down against the counter-top, chest to back, pinning him with his weight. “You were so cute, like a frightened chihuahua, all big eyes and tanned. Remember when you all used to dress up and play make believe around the neighborhood? All the other boys wore those goofy helmets and shit. But you, you stripped down to just a pair of pants and covered yourself in paint. I thought it was so sexy. I used to stand by the window and watch you. You had the cutest little nipples, all erect from the cold. I used to jack off to the thought of you vibrating around my cock.”

“I, I was just a kid!” Tweek protests, trying to throw the older man off of him. Stephen's hands slip up around Tweek's throat, holding him in place, squeezing just enough to make it hard to swallow.

“Nothing wrong with a little fantasizing, it's not like I ever touched you. And you're not a little kid anymore.”

“Please just leave me alone,” Tweek whispers, tears starting to well up in his eyes.

“You're already hard,” Stephen observes, reaching down with one hand to cup Tweek through his pant. “Don't act like you don't want this.” Stephen licks at the back of Tweek's neck. “Maybe we should play make believe next time you're at the bathhouse? I can bring the paint. And some nipple clamps.”

“Your wife and son are downstairs,” Tweek breathes, head becoming fuzzy. He is hard and he's not sure why. It's starting to ache in that way that hurts. “My mom is down there!”

“Then you'll need to make it quick, won't you, baby boy?”

They stumble out of the bathroom into a mercilessly empty hallway and lock themselves behind the first empty door they come across. Stephen slams Tweek against the door so hard he's left breathless. He tilts his head up so the man can bite at his throat and catches sight of a familiar poster. An Einstein poster. They're in Kyle's room.

A framed picture of the redhead watches him from the bedside as Stephen drops him onto the bed. Stan is behind Kyle in the picture, arms around him, nuzzling at his neck. They're both smiling. Stan is wearing some sort of sports jacket.

“Ah ha!” Stephen proclaims, pulling out a string of condoms and a comically large bottle of lubricant from the bedside table. “Knew I could count on that Broflovski kid. You can tell by just looking at him that kid can take a dick like a champ.”

“Hurry up,” Tweek urges. “Craig'll notice I'm missing.”

“You're such a good little cockwhore,” Stephen coos. “Daddy'll give you what you want.”

Tweek hears the jingle of Stephen's belt as he frees himself. He reaches down to undo his own pants. Stephen grabs the waist of them and tugs them down to Tweek's thighs.

Tweek has had sex with four men in his life at this point but Ghost is still his main point of reference. He can't help compare the two men as he goes through the motions. Ghost was larger than Stephen in every way possible, but he was also very thorough. When he was younger Ghost could spend an hour bringing Tweek to arousal and readying him, stretching him slowly and as painlessly as he could. It was never not painful but he had never bled during it. When he was older he still wouldn't dream of having sex without at least ten or fifteen minutes of preparation.

Stephen's idea of preparation is closer to ten or fifteen seconds. He generously coats his index and middle fingers and sticks them straight in. Tweek fights the urge to clench around him. He knows clenching won't help the discomfort. He's used too much lubricant, it drips down Tweek's thighs and lands on the neatly made comforter beneath them.

Ghost was always more concerned with girth than depth. He was careful to spread him open carefully, slowly. Even when he used his mouth on Tweek back there the actual preparation never seemed to be something overtly sexual. It was more like part of a hygiene ritual, something that needed to be done.

Stephen doesn't seem that concerned with width. He just seems to like the imagery of Tweek on his hands and knees, ass in the air, with his fingers deep inside him. He jabs at Tweek's insides almost violently, the lube catching in the creases between his fingers squelching. His nails are too long and Tweek feels them scrapping near his entrance.

When he's ready he pushes Tweek's head down and enters him at an angle. It was a good move on Stephen's part because Tweek screams at the sudden intrusion, the sound muffled by the pillow.

It hurts in a way it hasn't for a very long time. He can feel his asshole spasming around Stephen's cock and he wants to beg him to take it out.

But Stephen has slid his hands up under the back of Tweek's shirt and he's stroking his back, large palms running over the soft skin down his spine. Tweek feels his shirt slip up, bunching up near his chest. The man fingers his nipples, playing with them.

The sensation goes right to Tweek's dick. His hard on is returning.

“Ready baby?”

He nods into the pillow.

The older man steadies himself with a hand between Tweek's shoulder blades as he fucks him fast and deep. Tweek bites at the pillow, trying to hold in his moans, but it's impossible. It feels fantastic and Tweek reaches behind himself, touching the area where Stephen's penis disappears inside him. It feels slimy. Some of Stephen's pubic hair scratches his hand.

“Stop that,” Stephen admonishes, slapping at his fingers. “Grab your own dick, not mine.”

He can do that. He can't do it when there's not somebody else here telling him what to do but with Stephen here he's been given instructions. He “grabs” his own dick. It's not the same as having somebody else doing it. Not as good, when you know what's coming ahead of time.

Stephen is slowing down, his breath coming heavy from above him. The blond whines pathetically because he's not nearly close enough and the friction feels so good. He's barely even grazed his prostate. He needs more. He pushes back against him, trying to urge him on.

“Stop it,” the older man demands, grabbing a handful of Tweek's hair and pushing his face back down into the pillow. “You get what I give you.”

Tweek struggles against his grip, turning his face to one side. He takes a deep breath.

“Please, daddy,” he gives in.

“Please what?”

“Give me your cock,” he begs.

“Where's the respect?”

“Please, daddy, sir.”

Stephen's arms go around Tweek's waist, pulling him up higher, spreading his legs apart wider, as wide as he can with Tweek's pants restraining the movement. The new angle is impossibly deep. He feels like the man's cock must be up against his lungs. It feels amazing. Some of the lube is dripping down Tweek's thighs still. He scoops it up with his fingers and spreads it over his own leaking cockhead.

That's enough to make him cum.

He hurries to catch it in his hand, not wanting to stain his own pants or Kyle's blanket but some of it goes further than expected, painting Kyle's pillow in white splatters.

Tweek collapses, exhausted.

“Daddy hasn't cum yet,” Stephen reminds him, pulling him back up to meet his erratic thrusts. “Don't you want to make daddy cum?”

Tweek nods. Stephen lets go of him and he falls back on his stomach as the man pulls out of him. The blond turns around and sits back on his ankles, kneeling obediently. The older man directs his head to his cock, point at Tweek's parted lips.

Tweek hates the taste of lube. He doesn't care about the taste of his own ass but lube is disgusting. Gooey, sticky, and almost medicinal.

Stephen holds him by the back of his head and makes him swallow it all when he comes. Tweek breathes through his nose.

“Shit,” the man curses seconds later, already pulling his pants back up. “Come on kid, we need to get downstairs. It's nearly midnight.”

All in all, the entire encounter beginning to end took maybe ten minutes, including the time Tweek spends trying to clean up Kyle's pillow and remake the bed. Not so long that Tweek couldn't have claimed indigestion. He goes into the bathroom once more to clean himself off. The bitemark on his throat is slightly red but there aren't any teethmarks or anything obviously visible.

Satisfied that Stephen already made his reappearance with enough of a gap between them, Tweek heads downstairs. Craig isn't anywhere immediately visible. He doesn't see the slight limp as he makes his way down the stairs. He doesn't see the worried expression on Tweek's face as he glances around, wondering if anybody heard them. He doesn't see how Tweek touches his own bottom quickly, fearing for a second he might be leaking.

But Butters, standing by the couch with a glass of punch in one hand, does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was writing the scene with Stephen while on hold at work. The representative I was talking to came back on the line right as I was jotting down the word "cockwhore" and I nearly burst out laughing. How have I not been fired yet?
> 
> Also, should I update the tags to include Stephen/Tweek now or leave it as a surprise for anybody reading?


	13. Craig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm updating slower. I work 40 hours a week and go to school part time. Last week was Thanksgiving vacation so I only had to work without worrying about school so I got a lot more done.

“Hey, dickwad!” the nasal voice attempts to cut through Craig's concentration. “Cocksucker!” Something hits him in the side of the head. A green grape rolls over the paper in front of him. “Ball licker!” Another grape to the side of his head. This one is split and splatters a sticky wet mash into his temple.

“What do you need, Clyde?” Craig sighs, clearly annoyed as he wipes the sweet juice from his hair.

“Stop that shit. This is lunch, not study hall,” the brunette demands, already arming himself with another grape.

“I finished my essay for English during study hall,” Craig says flatly, turning back to his homework “This is my math.”

“It's called homework, not cafeteria work. You need to quit it.” Clyde grabs the paper before Craig can protests and yanks it from his hands. One corner tears off but it's not a big deal. Craig always copies his math homework over anyway, to hide all the smudged eraser marks.

“I don't have time to do it at home,” Craig replies, grabbing the paper back from Clyde in one angry yank. “I'm taking Tweek out shopping after school then we're going to binge watch the Simpsons.”

“Shopping? What is he, a chick?” Now that Craig is trying to smooth his wrinkled homework back out Clyde snags his pencil, tucking it behind his own ear. “Do gay guys even need to do Netflix and chill? Just like, cut straight to the chill.”

“He's outgrowing his pants,” Craig says, ignoring the second half of Clyde's complaint. “The doctor said he's finally reached a healthy weight. I mean, barely, he's still super skinny, but not like, sickly skinny.” He reaches for his pencil. Clyde scoots back out of his reach.

“Seriously? That quickly?” the brunette turns to his food now that he's successfully foiled Craig's attempts at productivity. He shoves a handful of Doritos in his mouth and takes a drink from his milk. “You better cut him off on the cookies or you'll be rolling him into prom.”

“How many times do I have to tell you we're not going to prom?” Craig scowls. He puts his homework away in his math folder and reaches for his own lunch. He's brown bagging it. Tweek has taken up a sudden fascination with bento boxes and keeps making him these little lunches with cutesy animal faces made of various foods. Today he's made him a turtle out of a carved out cucumber.

“You're not going to prom?” Stan interrupts an otherwise private conversation as he sits down beside Clyde. Kyle's already taking the seat beside Stan, his hair frizzier than normal, as if maybe somebody had been grabbing it. Considering they're ten minutes late for lunch it's fortunate they both bring their own lunches. Craig watches them unpack their boxers. Neither of them have cucumber turtles.

“Proms are for losers who peak at eighteen and end up living in a trailer park with six kids and ten dogs by the time they're twenty-five,” he states. He takes a Cutie out of the box and starts peeling it.

“Stan and I already got fitted for our tuxedos,” Kyle pipes up, practically glowing with excitement. “We're doing matching white.”

“Good for you.”

“You should come with us to Denver this weekend,” Clyde cuts back into the conversation, Doritos polished off completely. “Token would love to have you at the show. You can bring Tweek. We never get to see you anymore, dude. You're like, one of those ghosts that can't leave the location where you died. And you died in this school apparently.”

“Tweek isn't ready for something like that,” Craig replies, still peeling. “He doesn't do well with loud music. Or crowds.”

“He did fine at the New Years Eve party,” Stan points out. He steals a chip from Kyle's lunch. Kyle steals a kiss in return. Funny how those little affectionate moments used to annoy him. Lately Craig has found them almost sweet.

“He didn't have strangers bumping into him there.” He points out the obvious.

“You can't just leave him locked up in his tower like some dude Rapunzel,” Clyde insists. The pencil has fallen from his ear but he doesn't seem to have noticed. “Baking for you and singing duets with his hamsters. He needs to associate with somebody besides your grumpy ass face.”

“You just saw him literally two weeks ago on New Year's Eve.” He balls up his orange peels and throws them back into his bag to throw away later.

“Oh sorry, I guess he's Cinderella, let out once a year for the ball.” Clyde bumps against Craig with his shoulder. “Did you get him home before midnight or did he turn into a pumpkin?”

“Cinderella didn't turn into a pumpkin, you dumbass,” Kyle rolls his eyes. “Her carriage did.”

“And obviously we stayed past midnight,” Craig adds, popping a mandarin slice into his mouth. It's drier than he likes. “We were there for the countdown.”

“Well sorry, obviously my parents didn't dress me up as a princess every night and read me fairy tales before bed, like some people.” He exaggerates taking a good, long, hard look at the three very gay boys sitting around him. “Explains so much.”

“Cartman is having a house party Friday,” Stan suggests, his voice standing out for how calm it is against the other three voices at the table. He's drinking a protein drink and Craig wants to just punch him because how much of a stereotypical jock can one guy be? “His mom is out of town. Why don't you guys come hang out?”

“Like I'd let Cartman within twenty feet of my boyfriend,” Craig says, thankful that the fatass has lunch later in the day. Most of them have the later lunch, including Token, Kevin, and Cartman.

“He's not that bad anymore,” Clyde says. “And nobody told me he was having a party? Why did nobody tell me he was having a party?”

“Clyde's right,” Kyle says, outright ignoring the boy's question. “I mean, he's annoying as shit now, always moping around talking about how much he misses Butters. But he's a lot more mellow than when we were younger.”

“Seriously, dude,” Stan urges. He has a milk mustache, or a protein drink mustache rather. “He needs to hang out with kids our age. If he doesn't do well it's like a five minute walk back to your house.”

Craig's not ecstatic about the idea but Tweek has seemed lonely the last few weeks. He seemed to have gotten into some sort of fight with Butters on New Years Eve while he was out smoking with Clyde, the two were terse to each other the rest of that evening and since then he hasn't mentioned texting him or talking to him once. Maybe it would be good for Tweek to have some fun with the guys.

“Maybe,” he says, noncommittally. “Don't you two have a game or something Friday?”

“The season ended last month,” Clyde says, kicking his leg under the table. “Glad to know you were paying such close attention to the team.”

Really? Craig wasn't a huge football fan but it did seem like he should've noticed the end of his best friend's high school football career. He knows Clyde is still hoping to play in college.

“Sorry,” he says, sincerity in his voice. “You know how it is.”

“Nah, I get it,” Clyde says. “I was the same way when I first started getting my dick wet. “Didn't I miss your science fair that year?”

“It was a junior science championship, but whatever.”

“Oh, I remember that,” Kyle says, swallowing a bite of his sandwich. “Jimmy won the state honors that year, right?”

“Yeah, he did,” Craig confirms, glancing at Clyde who that quickly has switched from boisterous to crestfallen at the mention of their friend's name. He pushes his shrink-wrapped cupcake towards him. There's a dozen of them in Tweek's kitchen, waiting for him for when he gets out of school.

Clyde thanks him quietly and unwraps the cupcake.

“I'll talk to Tweek about it, see if he feels up to it,” Craig says. “I can't guarantee anything. He gets in moods. Sometimes he just wants to stay home and watch TV, sometimes he feels like going out places.”

Craig is telling the truth, he will tell Tweek about the party, but he'll put it off until the last possible minute. If he waits until Friday night to even mention the party he knows he'll be less likely to go. Tweek needs time to process events beforehand.

Come Friday evening, he knows Tweek is in a bad mood the moment he enters the younger boy's bedroom. He's curled up in bed in a makeshift cocoon, eating cereal right from the box and watching Fraggle Rock. It's easy to guess that Tweek has had a bad day, though as usual he says nothing to Craig to indicate what might have went wrong exactly. The older boy has a feeling it has something to do with his studies. Tweek has been having trouble with some of the math lessons already and gets frustrated easily, putting him in a bad mood for hours afterwards.

“Hey, babe,” he greets, sitting on the corner of the bed by Tweek's feet. He bends down to pry his boots off his feet, leaving them in a heap on the floor. “Can I get in?”

Tweek nods, chewing a mouthful of dry cereal, and lifts the edge of his blankets, allowing him entry. He's already in his pajamas, though it's fully possible he just never changed out of them from this morning. He feels overly warm as Craig snuggles in beside him, one arm going around his waist. He tucks the blanket back behind him, trapping the heat inside.

“Fraggle Rock again?”

“I'm still on season one,” he says after swallowing the cereal “I don't watch it that much. It just..it makes me feel happy.”

“I still watch Red Racer,” Craig replies. “It's makes me feel calm when I'm depressed.”

He half-wraps himself around Tweek, resting his cheek atop the boy's head, and watches the rest of the episode with him. There's only a few minutes left of it and it's too far along for Craig to figure out what's going on. They're Muppets. They're singing. That's probably about all he needs to know.

“We got invited to a party,” he lays out the offer as Tweek starts scrolling through Hulu for a different show to watch. “It's at Cartman's house. Starts at eight, if you're interested.”

“At Cartman's? Why would I want to go to Cartman's? He's an asshole.”

“Well, everyone will be going. Clyde and Token and Kevin. I know Stan and Kyle will be there, and I assume Kenny will drive down from Denver. Bebe I think, though I'm not sure about Wendy.” He nuzzles his face into Tweek's hair. He's probably been in bed for hours. He smells like lazy teenage boy and his hair is bigger and bushier than normal. It tickles his nose.

“Will Jimmy be there?” Tweek asks, still clicking through his recommended shows list. He stops on The Rugrats for awhile, contemplating if he feels like wanting to watch it.

“Jimmy?” Craig tries to keep his voice even and steady. He pulls back away from Tweek's hair. “No. No, Jimmy won't be there.”  
“I don't really feel like going to a party,” Tweek confesses. He stops scrolling for a moment to shove more cereal in his mouth. He's eating Cookie Crunch. Craig reaches over him to grab a handful from the box. Tweek slaps his hand away playfully. “I just want to stay in bed. It's cold out. But maybe we could all do lunch this weekend? Me, and you, and Clyde, and Token, and Jimmy. Like old times. Is City Wok still open?”

“Yeah, it's still open.” The play gone out of him, Craig pulls his hand back. Tweek notices and frowns. He reaches up to feed Craig a single cookie-shaped cereal piece.

“Does that sound good to you? Lunch at City Wok? Or would you prefer somewhere else?”

“Anywhere is fine.” Craig says, crunching his peace offering between his teeth.

He doesn't want to tell Tweek but when Tweek asks him to text them he knows he can't keep avoiding the issue. Tweek will find out sooner or later. Craig watches him move on from The Rugrats, now clicking through episodes of Spongebob Squarepants.

“Tweek?” He whispers into the boy's hair, so quietly that the boy probably wouldn't have heard him if he inches from his ear.

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted to say, uh, J, Jimmy won't be able to come.”

“He responded that quickly?” Tweek tilts his head to look at the phone in Craig's hands. The screen is dark. Craig presses back against Tweek's head, avoiding his gaze. He likes how his nose feelings pressed against the boy's scalp. He likes how he smells like shampoo and pillow.

“The thing is that Jimmy is, uh, no longer with us. He passed away. Almost three years ago.”

“What?” Tweek hoists himself up on his arms, sitting up straighter and turning his head to try to see Craig better. Craig sits back, turning slightly to face Tweek as well. “What happened? How? Why didn't you tell me?”

“It was a neurological thing,” Craig says, taking Tweek's hands. He snuggles closer to him, which says something since they're currently in a blanket cocoon. “It was related to his condition. I don't understand it exactly, something to do with parts of his brain not transmitting or something like that. The last couple years he was in a wheelchair and his speech impediment got worse. Then one day he just stopped being able to breathe. I mean, his lungs were fine but there was no signal there, you know? They had him on a breathing tube.”

“That's horrible,” Tweek's already tearing up. His nose going pink like it always does right before he starts to cry. Craig should stop there. This is why he didn't tell him about Jimmy.

“He went into a coma shortly after and just never woke up again,” he explains as quickly as he can, slacking on the details. Tweek doesn't need to hear about Jimmy's girlfriend crying for days at his bedside or about the humiliations he experience as a living vegetable. “They removed the breathing tube and it was quick. Um, I was a pallbearer.”

He expects Tweek to break down crying. That's what old Tweek would've done.

He just goes very quiet. He turns away from Craig, not pulling away from him but not looking at him. He scrolls back to the Fraggles and puts on the next episode. Craig pulls Tweek flush against him, his arms going around his waist. He feels so solid in his arms. So good. So, so _here_. He's here in his arms, no missing, not in a shallow grave, not in a pedophile's basement. He's real and he's alive and he's here. He squeezes Tweek tight enough that he could crack a rib on a more delicate boy.

They watch three more episode. Tweek puts his hands over Craig's and he shakes as he cries silently throughout the first episode. By the second he's just lying there, letting Craig hold him. The third episode is about one of the Fraggles getting a crush and going to the garbage heap for love advice. It ends with all the Muppets getting together and trying to have an orgy when one of the yellow ones spills an aphrodisiac on himself and, oh my God, is this really what kids watched in the 80s? The song is catchy though. He looks down at Tweek after it ends, the screen is flashing the dead battery signal in the corner. The boy is asleep. His face is shiny with tears.

Craig carefully closes the laptop and lays it on the floor beside him. The movement allows a gust of cold air to enter the blanket. He spoons his boyfriend, pulling the blankets back around them. He nuzzles at the soft blond hair at the base of his skull and sings a slightly modified version of the Fraggle song in the sleeping curve of his ear.

“Tweek, Tweek, love of mine, you're so fair, you're so fine, I'll love you till the end of time, Tweek, Tweek, love of mine.”

 

* * *

 

 

Craig doesn't wake up so much as one second he's in bed, dreaming about Peruvian Fraggles riding guinea pigs at an underground rodeo, then the next second he's out of bed, heart in his throat. A loud crash had awoken him, almost in unison with a scream. But his mind is still running a few seconds behind, still trying to make sense of things.

He's still in Tweek's bedroom. And the blond is no longer curled up in his blanket cocoon. He's on the floor near the window, screaming. And there is blood.

“Tweek!” he screams, still not making sense of what's going on. “What happened?”

“I'll fucking kill you,” Tweek shrieks. His arm is a blur, elbow sticking out behind him in the air. “I'm going to fucking kill you, you piece of shit!” There's the sound of something wet and meaty. Craig's first thought is that it's almost pornographic, then he realizes it's the sound of punching. Tweek is punching something, somebody. “Don't touch me! Don't fucking touch me! You fucking piece of shit!”

“Tweek!” Craig cries again. He grabs Tweek under his arms and pulls him up. A body is lying beneath him, a pool of blood beneath its head.

“Oh my God!” Craig cries out again, recognizing the team jacket. The face is so bloody barely any features are visible on it. “Oh my God! Clyde!”

Tweek plops himself down on the bed behind him. He's crying, wailing really. But Craig can't do anything about that right now. Not when Clyde's bleeding out on the floor. There's a broken lamp lying next to him.

“Clyde, Clyde, can you hear me? Oh God, is he dead?” Craig hopes he's unconscious. Clyde chooses this moment to cough, spitting up blood. “Tweek, get your mom!”

Tweek doesn't respond. He's still crying.

“What's going on up – holy shit!” Token's head appears at the window, his eyes wide. “Clyde!”

“Token, call for help,” Craig hollers. He wants to move Clyde onto the bed but he's almost certain you're never supposed to move somebody with a head injury. Token pulls out his phone and calls 911.

They're at the house in less than five minutes. Mrs. Tweak is at her bedroom door, looking confused as men run by her, then terrified as she realizes they're EMTs. Craig is following after the medics, showing them where to go. She grabs his arm and demands to know what happened.

“Clyde and Token snuck in through the window. Tweek went insane and bashed Clyde in the head with a lamp!”

“Is Tweek okay?”

“I, I don't know,” Craig winces. He doesn't want to admit he was too busy to check on his own boyfriend. “Everything happened so fast.”

Token takes the ambulance with Clyde, clutching at his hand even as the medics complain about him getting in the way. Craig is too shaken to drive so they all pile into Mrs. Tweak's car and Craig sits in the back with Tweek, attempting to hold him as they make their way to the hospital. He's still crying but it's quieter with quick, panicked breaths between the sobs. Craig can see his chest is moving much too quickly beneath his shirt and he inhales and exhales in uneven gasps.

“It's okay,” Craig soothes, trying to maneuver him against him, to rest his head on his own chest. Tweek resists, pushing against him.

“What was he doing in my room?” he demands. “I didn't mean to kill him! Oh geez, I killed Clyde! I'm going to jail! I don't want to be locked up. Craig, I can't do it. I can't be locked inside another tiny room! I can't! Oh man. What if I have a roommate? What if he burns a swastika into my ass and rapes me every night?” His voice is high, terrified. He has the eyes of a frightened rabbit.

“He's not dead, you just knocked him out.” Craig insists, trying to pull him into his arms once more. Tweek is having none of it. He pulls farther away, cowering against the door.

“That doesn't mean he won't die!” He insists.

“Tweek, calm down,” his mother barks from the front. “Even if you did kill him it was in our own house. You can't go to jail for killing an intruder in your own home.”

Craig's not sure if that's entirely true. Doesn't somebody need to threaten you for that to be okay? Besides, he doesn't exactly want to see his best friend dead, especially at the hands of his boyfriend. Clyde has to be okay.

Token's already in the waiting room when they arrive. He's sitting with his head in his hands, obviously in shock. Not to mention that by the reek of alcohol emanating from his sweat, he's probably drunk as hell. Craig leads the way to him, Tweek following, his mother at the rear. She heads to the nearest coffee machine. Predictable.

“Did they say anything?” Craig whispers to his friend. Token lifts his head and looks at him, his face wet with tears, eyes pink. There's vomit on the front of his shirt.

“In the ambulance they, they said that head wounds bleed a lot. But that, that it's not necessarily a bad sign or anything.” Token sniffs and wipes at his eyes. “I haven't heard from them since we got here. Craig, what the fuck happened?”

“You're asking me that?” Craig asks incredulously. “I woke up with a bloody Clyde on the floor. What were you two doing coming through Tweek's window?”

“We were playing beer pong,” Token sniffles.

“Coffee?” Mrs. Tweak interrupts, holding out a Styrofoam cup. Token nods and takes it with a quiet thank you.

“We were playing beer pong,” he repeats. “And Clyde looks at the clock and says how late it is and, I don't know, we were both drunk and you weren't there. So Bebe was like, you two should go drag their sorry asses to the party, and it sounded like a good idea. We didn't want to go through the front door in case his mom saw us because, like, we knew we were drunk and we're underage. So Clyde had this idea to go through the window.”

“You couldn't just text us?”

“The window was dark,” Token sniffs again. He sips at his coffee. It's black. Token never drinks black coffee but he needs to sober up. “We figured you two were asleep so we thought, let's get the ladder out of the garage.”

“So you decided to just go through Tweek's window?” Craig demands. Despite his worry for Clyde he's starting to get angry because obviously these two don't give two shits about traumatizing his boyfriend. “Do you not know his history? Look at what you did to him.”

They both glance over at Tweek. His face is red and he's breathing in short gasps. He's also bent over, head between his legs, as if he were going to become sick. His mother is rubbing his back but it doesn't seem to be helping.

“Tweek?” Craig asks, worried. “Are you okay?”

“I can't breathe,” the blond wheezes. “My fingers are numb.”

“Nurse!” Mrs. Tweak calls out. “Something's wrong with my son!”

'Sir, are you okay?” a woman walks overs. Craig's not sure if she's a nurse. Maybe she's just a receptionist.“Sir?”

“Don't touch me!” Tweek screams, hitting her hand away.

“Ma'am, I think your son is having a panic attack,” the woman informs Mrs. Tweak. “I think it'd be best if we bring him into a room and let him lie down. If he doesn't calm down I'll have a doctor take a look at him.”

“That's probably for the best,” she agrees. She helps Tweek to his feet. Craig stands to help her.

“Family only in the back,” the woman smiles apologetically. Family only? Tweek is Craig's family. His most important family.

“Stay with Token,” Mrs. Tweak tells him. “He needs somebody here with him.”

Craig looks back at Token. He's went from holding his head to burying it in his arms. His shoulders shake with silent tears. Craig sits back down beside him, putting an arm awkwardly around him.

“Did they call Clyde's parents?” he asks after sitting there a couple minutes in silence. Token nods, not lifting his head. Craig sighs and slumps down into the chair, burying his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he had thrown on before running out of the house. There isn't much more either of them can do than wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about the Song/Fraggle Orgy.
> 
> https://youtu.be/fxss1rmZKKA


	14. Tweek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter.

Tweek feels like he's been lying on the bed suffocating for hours. His breath feels like the stuttering of a gun, short, sudden, and dangerous. He's been staring at the hospital room's ceiling for hours.

The clock reads fifteen minutes.

His fingers still feel numb and his head is swimming. He feels dizzy. Like he's going to faint. He's felt like he's about to faint for the last half hour but it hasn't happened yet. No matter how hard he tries he can't seem to get his breathing even. The nurse who had looked him over had insisted it would be okay, that he was just having a panic attack, and that the doctor would be in to see him soon.

“We'll do some tests on you if we need to,” she had assured him before leaving the room. “Let's let the doctor have a look at you first, okay sweetie?”

He feels like he's probably going to die before the doctor gets here. His mother is still with him, sitting in the corner, but he keeps shrugging her off when she goes to touch him. He doesn't want to be touched. Why do people just think they can touch him without asking? Craig. His mother. The nurse. Does the hospital cook want to come in next, maybe give him a scalp massage? The janitor can come in and give him a handjob after that.

His own hands are shaking in his lap. There's something almost nostalgic about that. He remembers spending a lot of time in elementary school staring at his shaking hands as he tried to draw a picture or take notes in class. The first nine years of his life had been like living in a never-ending earthquake, everything around him trembling and rolling.

Then he thinks about his first couple days in the basement, when his body had to deal with the sudden withdrawal. Ghost stayed with him the first few days, barely leaving the room, going so far as to even use Tweek's toilet which is something he refrained from doing later on. Tweek was never sure why he stayed those first few days straight. Maybe he was just obsessed with looking at Tweek? Like a child with a new pet. When you get a new kitten in the house you just want to keep petting it, watching it play, staring at it as it sleeps. After the first few days you can start to spend less and less time with it. Eventually you might barely notice it at all.

That would've been nice. If Ghost had just stopped wanting to pet him and play with him. Little boys are more interesting than cats.

Maybe it was just to feed Ghost's own sense of self satisfaction with the situation. He had successfully stolen a pretty, delicate little boy right off the streets and now he belonged to him. He had taken a human and turned him into property. Surely there must've been some sort of sense of accomplishment accompanying such a feat.

Ghost would often just sit in the corner those days, watching him, observing him. Even if he wasn't touching him he would comment on him. He'd tell him he was adorable. That he was precious. How perfect his skin was. How soft his hair. How pretty his eyes. Terrified, Tweek had spent hours at a time just sitting on the bed, staring down at his hands, his stomach queasy, his skin slick with sweat. He was nine-years-old and going through a serious case of caffeine withdrawal.

He hadn't realized it at the time. Headaches. Trembling. Dizziness. Sweating. He had even thrown up a couple times, though that was hard to distinguish if it was because of the caffeine or the things Ghost had made him do. A lot of those symptoms were similar to be perfectly honest. Moodiness was also apparently a symptom, according to something Tweek had read online, but who wouldn't have been moody during that time?

Tweek had never realized how bad his coffee addiction was as a kid. It seemed normal to him at the time, he had been drinking coffee out of a bottle as a baby. Ghost had told him that was what was wrong with him, when the headaches and shaky feeling in his stomach hadn't subsided, even in his sleep. He'd wake up shaking in Ghost's arms and Ghost held him tight against him to try to stop the shaking, trapping him in a cage made of human limbs.

“Your old parents were bad people, baby boy,” Ghost had told him after the first couple days as he rubbed Tweek's back for him. He had been lying on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, trying to block out all light and sound as he suffered through the worst migraine in his life. “Little boys shouldn't drink coffee. Caffeine is bad for children. You'll be happier and healthier once we get it out of your system.”

He wasn't either. Certainly not happier, but lack of exercise and fresh air and sunlight caused him to become sickly the longer he lived in the basement. And Ghost's hand on his back had just made the knots in his stomach worse. He had touched him more than that shortly after, allowing him to continue to lie there with his face hidden. Ghost told him an orgasm helps with headaches. At his age, Tweek had had no idea what an orgasm was. He agreed to let Ghost give him one, thinking it was a pill or liquid like cough syrup.

This isn't helping. He feels damp with sweat and the doctor still hasn't arrived. His skin tingles and he itches, feeling like he's covered in an army of tiny invisible ants. He scratches at his arms but it doesn't help. His nails are too long and it leaves white marks on him that fade to pink.

The doctor finally arrives. They're male and Tweek bites at his lip. He would've preferred a female doctor. But he's not a large man. Only a few inches taller than Tweek maybe, with dark skin and thick, shiny looking hair. He looks Indian but he has no accent as he greets Tweek. His mother stands to greet the doctor, going over the situation, as Tweek continues to sit there taking rapid, uneven breaths.

“Not feeling too well, I'm guessing,” the doctor hums. “Let's take a listen to your heartbeat.”

Something about the doctor's voice puts Tweek on edge. His shoots a glance towards his mother as the doctor presses the cold metal disk to his chest. He attempts to take the deep breaths the doctor instructs but his body isn't cooperating. It feels even worse now, his throat feels as narrow as a Capri Sun straw.

“He isn't taking any sort of drugs, is he?” the doctor asks his mother after he removes the plugs from his ears. “Just to rule out complications.”

“He's on several psych medications,” she tells the doctor. She doesn't know Tweek hasn't taken his drugs in over a month. “But he's been on them for months without any issues.”  
“Any SSRIs?” The doctor takes out one of those weird puffy cuff things they use to take blood pressure and wraps it around Tweek's arm.

“What?” His mother asks, clearly confused. She watches him pump the blood pressure gauge. Tweek hates the feeling of it. It gets tighter and tighter, like it's going to just slice right through Tweek's arm in the middle. He knows that's impossible but it doesn't help his breathing.

“Antidepressants, like Prozac or Zolof?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, I think so.”

He doesn't respond right away. He's finishing checking Tweek's blood pressure. He nods as the Velcro rip signifies its removal.

“Those should prevent a panic attack. If he's on Wellbutrin or another non-SSRI medication it might not make a difference. We'll need to get a full list of his medication just to check. But for now I think we should send him over to the lab for a few tests.” He turns to Tweek again. “I'm going to check your eyes now, if that's okay with you?”

Tweek shakes his head. That's not okay with him. He doesn't want this man near him and especially not near his face. He doesn't like how he speaks. How he fakes concern. Tweek knows when he hears somebody talking in a way only meant to trick others and this man is doing that.

“Tweek, let him check your eyes,” his mother scolds. “He needs to make sure you're okay.”  
He doesn't consent but he doesn't object when the doctor uses the small flashlight on him. He touches the side of Tweek's head and gently pulls up his eyelid as he shines the light directly into them.

“Just breathe,” the doctor instructs, his voice steady and smooth. He's speaking so quietly that Tweek barely hears him, he's sure his mother can't hear him at all. “There we go, baby boy. We'll make you all better.” His breath is hot on Tweek's face. And it smells spicy. Like curry. Like chili powder.

Tweek's back in the basement. His eyes are covered by the blindfold and he's waiting, his entire body tense. There had been something in his lunch that had caused his throat to swell up and his face to get puffy. Ghost had started freaking out the moment Tweek had turned to him with the complaint that he didn't feel good. Now he waits for the sting that Chile had just warned him about.

“It'll just hurt for a moment, baby boy,” Ghost assured him, his voice rough with worry, clogged with tears.

“We'll make you all better,” Chile said smoothly, calmly. His voice so even and so pseudo-soothing that he sounded like a radio morning DJ. So incredibly fake.

Tweek shoves the doctor out of the way as he jumps to his feet. His mother yells his name in surprise but he's already at the door, slamming it open and running. He runs past the nurses. He runs past reception. He runs past Craig and Token and hears them both calling after him. He hears footsteps following him.

He doesn't care. He doesn't want anybody near him. He just wants away from that hospital. Away from the doctors. Away from anybody who wants to touch him and stick things in him.

It doesn't take long for him to become winded but he keeps running anyway. Until his lungs burn and his legs are ready to give out under him. Everything around him is a streak of black and white and the air is so cold it burns his already pained lungs.

But it smells fresh, like pine and fresh snow. Not like basement and hospital.

There are no more footsteps behind him. He's outrun everybody. He feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. His mother. Craig. He doesn't check. He reaches into his pocket and presses down on the button on the side until it turns off. He resists the urge to throw it into the trees.

Then he takes stock of his surroundings, trying to figure out where he is. The hospital isn't in the middle of town and he's somewhere on the outskirts now. Nothing but snow and trees and shining black road-top, wet and slushy with dirty snow. The moon hangs giant and white above him.

He thinks about calling Craig but Craig will make him go back to the hospital. Back to his mother and Clyde and Dr. Chile.

He's not imagining it. That was him. He knows it. He smelled like him. He talked like him. That was him. But who would believe him? He never saw Chile's face and what are the odds of him being in South Park of all places? How could he have gotten to Tweek so quickly when he had the allergic reaction when he was eleven if he was all the way in South Park at the time?

Maybe it wasn't him.

But it was.

Unless it wasn't.

“You coming?” a voice asks.

He looks up, startled. A car has pulled over. An older looking man is inside, looking impatient. His hair is slicked back and he's wearing a leather jacket. Tweek has images of being in some Stephen King movie. The greasers were always psycho killers in Stephen King movies.

This man pulled over, thinking he was hitchhiking. His headlights are on, dusty looking with dried salt and sand.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Tweek hurries to the car. Gets inside the passenger's seat. The inside is cramped and there's some trash around his feet. Newspapers, some old coffee cups, a couple packs of cigarettes. The man is smoking as he puts the car back in drive. The heater isn't on and it's nearly as cold inside as out.

“Where to?” He asks, blowing smoke into Tweek's face. He tries not to cough.

“Uh, town, I guess,” he says, not having time to think about it. He didn't have any plans. He just wants to be away from everybody who cares too much about him. All these people claiming to do what's best for him.

The man is going to a bar so Tweek thanks him and gets out at the bar. He's too young to go in so he glances around to see what's nearby. There's a Home Depot across the street. He remembered liking Home Depot as a kid. There was something about all those stacks of wood he found calming. He thinks about following the man inside, just wandering the aisles and smelling the fresh cut wood. But it's nearly midnight and the Home Depot is closed.

He stumbles upon Village Inn diner and it sounds good to be inside somewhere warm. He sits alone at a booth and orders coffee.

“Just coffee?” the waitress asks skeptically.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Don't sit here all night just drinking coffee,” she says, suddenly aggressive. Tweek watches her waddle off, confused. He doesn't feel hungry enough to order anything, is there anything wrong with just wanting a hot drink on a cold night?

The coffee tastes old and stale. He thinks about ordering a hot chocolate next but just asks for a refill. The second cup is fresher.

It doesn't do much. He's exhausted, despite the long nap he'd had earlier.

“If you're going to just sit here and drink coffee you should go sit with those goth kids,” the waitress complains an hour later when filling his third cup. He doesn't respond.

It's nearly two in the morning when he gets up to use the bathroom. One of the aforementioned goth kids is at the mirror, applying eyeliner from the look of it. He watches Tweek's reflection use the urinal behind him. It's cold inside the bathroom. The white tiles make it feel colder.

“Hey, aren't you that kid who got abducted and kept in a sex dungeon?” The goth kid drawls, eyeliner still in hand.

Tweek ignores him.

“I heard he kept you in a gimp suit. Is it true you always needed to keep a butt plug in so you'd be ready for him? I mean, if that was true you'd have like, no bowel control left.”

Tweek flushes the urinal and joins the boy at the sink. He's pretty sure this boy was in his grade as a kid. He has a red streak in his hair. His lip is pierced on the bottom right, a metallic ring glinting in the commercial glare of the bathroom lighting.

“I bet you like, wanted to kill yourself every day. Did you ever try? I totally would've found a way to kill myself.”

Tweek sighs, wipes his hands off on his pants, and turns to the kid.

“Do you want a blowjob?”

“W, what?” The kid takes a step back from him.

“Do you want a blowjob? I'll give you one in the stall for twenty bucks.”

“Uh, yeah, sure dude. I mean, fuck.” The goth kid is apparently at a loss for words. He looks at Tweek, suddenly very interested in scanning him with his eyes, as if just seeing him for the first time. “How much to fuck you?”

 


	15. Craig

Craig kneels beside his own bed, ignoring the discomfort of the cheap carpet pressed into knees, as he watches Tweek sleep the sleep of the dead. The early morning sun is washing over his face, his blond eyelashes glowing like golden floss on his pale cheeks. It's that type of sunlight that makes you uncomfortable to lie in it. Too warm, too bright, too direct. The kind that mostly exists in shallow strips, leaving the rest of the world in shadow. Craig hates that his bedroom faces the east. He can never stay asleep with that sun cutting through him. It leaves him sweat-soaked, blinking in disorientation.

But Tweek continues to sleep despite the presence of this sunlight on his face, unperturbed. His breathing is deep and even. He's utterly exhausted.

Craig is exhausted too. He had spent hours last night searching for his boyfriend, this beautiful boy lying before him. First he had taken Mrs. Tweak's car and driven around the area of the hospital, thinking he couldn't have gone too far. He drove in both directions from the hospital, checking a few dirt roads, scanning the sides and the fields for his presence. He had even kept an eye out for footprints in the snow, fearful that Tweek had maybe disappeared directly into the forest at some point. There had been a few indents that looked like footprints but every time he pulled over to inspect them they had either just been indents from the lay of the land or tracks left by deer.

When he had realized that Tweek was nowhere to be seen it had become apparent he must've gotten a ride into town. There was nowhere else to go. Maybe he had used his phone to call Uber. So Craig had picked up Mrs. Tweak and they had rode back into South Park, going immediately to the Tweak household to see if Tweek had just went home. He hadn't. The door was locked, the windows black. His bed was empty.

“I have work in the morning, I don't have time for that boy's theatrics,” Mrs. Tweak had complained as she hung the keys up beside the door. “He has his own set when he feels like coming home.”

Craig had walked home to check his own house. Maybe Tweek had went to the Tucker household where his mother and sister would be, willing to hug him and feed him ice cream. Nobody was awake and there was no sign that Tweek had made an appearance. He checked the garage and the closets and backyard, just in case. But there was nothing.

So for several hours Craig had driven around the town, slowly rolling down the streets, looking for him. He went to the places he thought Tweek might like to go. The pond. The school playground. An old tree house they used to play in as children. He texted the boy regularly, hoping to receive a response, but none of his texts received a reply. Every time he called it went straight to voicemail.

It was three in the morning before he started thinking less about where Tweek liked to go and more about where he possibly could go at three in the morning. Not many places were open that late in South Park. Mostly seedy establishments and diners. Even the bars closed at two.

The Village Inn was the second diner he checked. And there he had been, like some old painting depicting the meaning of solitude and despair. Alone, shivering, eyes puffy, resting his head against one hand. He had looked so small, alone in that booth. Craig had ignored the waitress' request to give her a moment to seat him and made it across the diner in a handful of long steps. He swept Tweek into his arms, the other boy jumping with surprise before sighing and just melting against him. The booth's seat was uncomfortably hard and cold.

It had been nearly four by the time Craig had him tucked under his own covers, the plastic stars above his bed glowing over them both protectively. He stared at them as he attempted to fall asleep. His heart was still in his throat, adrenaline pumping through him. He had been so, so scared of what might have happened to him. So worried. He could've lost him. Tweek fell asleep almost instantly, his head heavy and comforting on Craig's chest. He ran his fingers through his hair for a good hour. It had been matted and tangled but by the time he fell asleep it was soft and smooth, the oil from Craig's hands turning it into silk beneath his fingers. When he closed his eyes he could still the plastic stars on his eyelids.

It's eight-thirty now. Craig had trouble sleeping, his head aching and stomach trembling with worry. He doesn't want to awaken him but he has to go and he doesn't want to leave him behind. But he's so beautiful like this, so angelic, with the halo of sunlight illuminating his ruffled blond hair. His face is so placid like this, so calm. Nothing like that angry ball of fire and fists that he had awoken to just yesterday evening. When he wakes up he'll frown. He'll worry. He might cry again. Craig hates to see him cry. Hates to see him upset. He'd rather take a bullet than see Tweek cry.

Craig doesn't know what set him off at the hospital. He had asked him last night, gingerly, afraid to rile him back up. But Tweek had been too tired to make a big deal of it. He had just muttered a tired, “I smelled him,” before laying his head against Craig's shoulder. He had kept his head there the entire ride home.

“Tweek,” Craig whispers, touching his shoulder. He's still wearing his clothes from last night, they're rumpled. He shakes him gently but it's not enough. He says his name louder and shakes a little more forcefully. The third try is the charm.

Tweek's eyes slit open just a fraction, looking at Craig. He's not sure if Tweek can even open his eyes anymore than that, he looks so tired. Like just keeping his eyes open that tiny bit is taking all the effort in the world. The whites are pink.

“Token texted me that visiting hours begin at nine,” Craig explains, stroking his silky soft hair. “Do you want to go with me to the hospital to see him?”

Tweek wraps the blankets tighter around himself and rolls over, his back to Craig. He looks larger under the giant comforter, like a squeezable stuffed animal plushy. Maybe a harbor seal.

“Tweek?” He asks. He might not be awake yet. You can have your eyes open and even move without actually being awake.   
“I'm sleeping,” the blond grunts.

So that's a no then. Craig gets up on his knees and bends over the sleepy lump of blond hair in his bed. He kisses the side of Tweek's head. He can't resist nuzzling the back of his neck. He loves him so much.

“I'll be back in a few hours,” he tells him softly. “Just stay here and sleep.”

Another grunt. Tweek pulls the blankets over his head, shielding himself from the sun.

He changes into some fresh clothes. He had been so exhausted last night that he had just trudged up the stairs with Tweek in his arms, laid him out on the bed, and dropped down beside him. Even though he hadn't been able to sleep for a good while he had felt too physically drained to even take off his shirt. When he had finally fallen asleep he had been wearing the same clothes he had worn last night. The ones he had went to school in earlier that morning.

He knocks on Tricia's door. She's awake but still in her pajamas, phone in one hand. She flips him off and he flips her off in response.

“It's the crack of dawn,” she exaggerates. “What are you doing, Craig?”

“I'm going to the hospital to see Clyde,” he says, offering no further explanation despite knowing that his family has no knowledge about what went down last night. “Tweek is sleeping in my room. I'll be home in a couple hours and he'll probably sleep the whole time, but can you keep an eye on him?”

She eyes him suspiciously, looking around him like she expects to see somebody standing behind him.

“Why? Did something happen?”

“I'll tell you about it later,” he promises, his voice taking on an undignified pleading tone. “Just, don't let him leave. And if he wakes up keep him company. I swear I won't be long.”

She agrees, but adds on, “Only because I like Tweek, not as a favor to you.”

He loves his sister and she loves him. He kisses her on the cheek.

Token is in the waiting room when he arrives at the hospital. He's playing on his phone and he somehow looks less exhausted than Craig feels. He wonders if Token has been here all night or if he went home at some point last night. Bebe is there with him, and Kevin. They're talking quietly.

“He's in there with his parents,” Token tells him, looking up from his phone. “Only two people at a time.”

When they hear Craig is here to see Clyde they both come out to greet him. His father is a kind man and he gives Craig a hug in greeting, complimenting the flowers Craig is carrying in one hand. He's known him since he was a very small boy. His stepmother is more cold towards him. She's only known Craig for three years and he hasn't made the best impression with her. Most people who don't know him well find his monotone way of speaking and use of sarcasm off-putting.

Craig goes in first, Token saying he'll be there in a couple minutes. He's talking to Clyde's father about medical bills or some shit. Craig's mind is too dead to even comprehend their words.

Clyde looks like shit. He's sitting up in bed and he's conscious but his face is a patchwork of stitches and bruises. His lip is split, one of his eyes entirely closed. There's a bandage around his head. He's also been cursed enough to have to be seen in the paper blue folds of a hospital nightgown.

He curls his lip in disgust when he sees Craig, then lifts his hand in reflex, wincing. The movement must've aggravated the split lip. He touches his lip gingerly.

“Hey, dude,” Craig greets. He sits down in the chair at his bedside. It's still warm from whoever was sitting there a minute ago, his father or stepmother. There's a stuffed pair tucked in the blanket at Clyde's side. It's holding a heart with a sucker attached to it.

“Is that all I get? A hey, dude?” Clyde asks. His voice is slurred slightly and Craig isn't sure if that's because of the split lip or some sort of medication. God, he hopes it isn't because of brain damage. If he had brain damage he couldn't just be sitting up talking already, right?

“I, uh, brought flowers?” Craig holds out the bunch to show him them, then looks around for a spare vase. There aren't any in sight. He holds them towards Clyde instead, in case he wants to take him. He doesn't reach for them and eventually Craig lets them fall to his side.

“I woke up at one AM in a hospital bed, with the worst headache of my life, and you weren't there,” Clyde states, very matter-of-fact.

No, he was at the pond at about one. Walking the entire rim of it, hoping to God to not find a blond frozen solid in the snow. The large moon in the sky had glowed right in the middle on top of the dark water, like some picture you'd see on a calendar.

“Your psycho boyfriend gave me a concussion,” Clyde informs him, his voice nearly as monotone as Craig's normal speaking voice. He wonders if Clyde picked that up from him. “I have two broken ribs. And you couldn't even be here when I woke up.”

How could have been here? Tweek had been out there, alone, possibly dead. Clyde had been in the capable hands of the doctors, Tweek had been alone. Did Clyde just expect him to abandon Tweek? The idea of Tweek being alone, even for a half hour, breaks Craig's heart.

“I'm permanently blind in this eye,” Clyde continues, pointing to the swollen left eye. “Not like, shitty blurry blind. Blind blind. I can't see out of this eye. I'll never see out of it again. And you were out there sucking the dick of the guy who did this to me instead of being here with me. You're supposed to be my best friend.”

“Clyde,” Craig protests, pleading with him to understand. “It's not like we were home banging. He had a panic attack and ran away. I had to find him. Don't you get that?”

“He's a fucking psycho. It'd be better for everybody if he had just died in that basement.” Clyde sneers. With how gruesome his face looks it makes him look almost demonic. “The little spaz should've killed himself the first time some pervert stuck his dick in him.”

“You're a dick, Clyde.”

“And so are you. But you're a dick with two working eyes,” Clyde points out. “Get out of my room. I don't want to even look at you. Not even with my fucking one working eye.”

“Clyde,” he says.

“Out!”

He decides to give Clyde some time to cool down. And maybe, perhaps, he is a pretty shitty friend, because he's not worrying about Clyde being blind so much as how Tweek will take the fact that Clyde is now blind. Tweek blinded a seventeen-year-old. It doesn't take a genius to figure out the implications of such a feat. He hadn't heard from any of the DI or DII recruiters but he knew Clyde was still counting on one of the DIII teams to offer him a football scholarship for the fall. Craig never thought Clyde was good enough to get one but he knew this was the end of Clyde even having a chance.

He stops at McDonald's on the way home and picks up some breakfast for Tweek and Tricia. It's warm inside the restaurant and the familiar smell of hash browns and coffee makes the tightness in his stomach loosen a fraction. It reminds him of the rare occasions as a kid where his mother would take him for breakfast before school. It always seemed to be in the winter and it was always dark out. He sits at one of the tables and stares at the Happy Meal display as he waits for his order number to be called.

Tweek is still asleep when he gets home. Tricia takes her portion of the food, without a thank you, and locks herself back into her room. Craig locks his own door behind him and strips down to his boxers. The sun has risen higher in the sky now and while the room is brighter than he'd like the sun is no longer shining directly on the bed. The house feels cold and Tweek feels warm, inviting. Craig holds him, feels him in his arms, alive, warm, breathing. He rests his head between his shoulder blades and listens to his breathing. He's not a Tweek-sickle by the pond. He's not missing, hidden away in a basement. He's here in his bed, asleep. Solid yet soft. His head not here, away somewhere in dreamland, but his body firmly in reality.

Maybe Tweek is a psycho but he's his psycho.

Craig wakes back up at noon but Tweek is still asleep. Craig eats some of the cold McDonald's and reads some news articles on his phone. One o'clock hits and Tweek is asleep as Craig starts working on his homework for Monday morning. He eats another cold hash brown, wishing he had bothered to finish it off when it was fresh and hot. Two o'clock hits and Craig is reading a book for English class, despite the fact he doesn't need to have it finished until Thursday. Two-seventeen hits and Tweek stirs from the bed, shuffles into the bathroom, and comes back two minutes later. He goes back to sleep.

Around three Craig realizes that Tweek isn't asleep. His breathing has changed but he isn't moving. He's just lying in bed, away from Craig. He wonders if he's looking out the window. It's snowing out.

“Tweek?” He asks, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

“Are you hungry? I brought you some McDonald's.”

“No.” His voice sounds very small and distant.

“Do you want to watch something on Netflix?”

No response.

Craig opens his mouth, trying to think of something else to suggest. Do you want to go for a walk? To the mall? Do you want to go downstairs and watch TV on the big television? Do you want to go the movies? The pet store? Play video games? Play with Stripe?

Nothing comes out except a small squeak. He closes his mouth. He doesn't know why but he can't speak.

Tweek lays in his bed all weekend, only stirring to go to the bathroom or sitting up to eat or drink something small. His parents tell him they'll call Tweek's doctor for him if he needs them too. He tells them she doesn't work weekends. He's not sure if that's true. It may be.

He goes to school on Monday morning, after kissing Tweek's head and face repeatedly for a good ten minutes. He tells him he loves him between every kiss, making sure to not miss a single millimeter of skin on his face. Tweek stares ahead during it all, eyes blank. His blue eyes look gray.

Clyde is back in school, everybody in their grade flocking to his side to hear the story of what happened to him. Some of them look back at Craig, like he was the one who did it to him. He sits alone at lunch, letting Clyde take their normal table with Stan and Kyle. More people than normal join them, wanting to hear the story of how he got beat up by a psycho ex-sex slave. He doesn't feel hungry and he picks at his food, wishing he was home with Tweek. Even if Tweek was still checked out, still silent and unresponsive, he would still be there. Still be warm against him. That's better than being surrounded by a bunch of talkative, hyped up teenagers. The goth kids sit at the other end of the table and he tries to block out their discussion about black holes and despair. When he looks up to glance out the window for a second, wondering if it's still snowing, one of the goth boys is watching him strangely. He flips off the kid.

When he gets home that afternoon his bed is empty. Tweek is gone. He texts him, asking if he's at home. It takes ten minutes before he receives a reply and is disappointed when the response is a no. He's shopping with his mother. And that he'll see him tomorrow.

 


	16. Tweek

Valentine's Day is coming up. It's less than a week until it hits and Craig has been hinting at something going down. Telling him to make sure not to schedule a doctor's appointment that day, to make sure to keep it open. Tweek's thinking of disappearing for it. He doesn't want to celebrate Valentine's. He doesn't like to think of Valentine's.

Valentine's Day was the first holiday he celebrated with Ghost. He celebrated a lot of holidays with Ghost, some better and some worse, but Valentine's was always the absolute worst. That was the day he liked to “experiment” with new ways for them to “make love.” The day he liked to spend all day in bed with Tweek, touching him and kissing him and telling him how beautiful he was. The day he liked to dress him up in “sexy” outfits and hand-feed him chocolate-dipped strawberries.

That first Valentine's had come so soon after his abduction that Tweek had still been a crying mess, terrified of being killed, of being raped, going through withdrawal. He hadn't even realized it was Valentine's Day. The first few days had been such a blur of crying and sleeping and waking up just to go back to crying. Then he had awoke and Ghost was holding out a heart-shaped box of chocolates to him, telling him he loved him. Which was ridiculous, he didn't know anything about Tweek at that point except the fact he cried a lot and peed the bed.

Not that Tweek normally peed the bed, that was a new development at the time. One that hadn't lasted long, thankfully.

Last time he had peed the bed at home he remembered his father getting angry, lecturing him over not drinking too much coffee before bed, and locking him into the bedroom, telling him he was grounded for a week. Except for his chores, which he was doubling for a month.

Ghost had kissed his crying face and told him it was okay, all good little boys made mistakes sometimes. He had put Tweek in his bath and left him to sit in the hot water as he stripped his bed, disappearing out the door with the foul smelling bedding. Tweek had thought about ducking his head under the water, to see if it was possible to drown himself. But Ghost wasn't gone long enough for him to do anything but get his hair wet just in time for the man to lather in the shampoo.

He didn't pee the bed on Valentine's Day. When he woke the sheets smelled clean and they felt dry and warm despite the dampness of the basement. There had been a heart-shaped box of chocolates on his beside stand. Ghost watched him from his chair as he devoured the entire box of candy in one sitting, sniffling and crying with melted chocolate on his face. Cryptically, the man had murmured to himself “Cut myself on angel's hair and baby's breath.” Then he licked the chocolate off Tweek's chin and covered him with his massive, all-encompassing body. He was a large man but he seemed much larger when he was younger, and even larger when he was on top of him. He was large enough to block out the light. Large enough to crush Tweek, to squeeze all the air out of his body.

Valentine's Day was the first time Tweek had been French kissed. His first kiss had been to some random blond girl in first grade he couldn't even recall the name of. Then there was some scary girl at Bebe's Stupid Spoiled Whore party. She has tried to stick her tongue in his mouth but he had screamed and ran, escaping out the front door and running home as quickly as he could. After that had only been Craig. Kisses from Craig in the morning when they greeted each other. Kisses in the evening as they parted. Kisses in the hallway between classes and during lunch period, tasting of pizza and milk. But those kisses were always chaste, innocent pecks. No more sexual than the kisses his grandmother gave him on the holidays.

On the third day he owned him Ghost had stuck his tongue into Tweek's mouth and he couldn't scream and run. He was much scarier and much larger than that Stupid Spoiled Whore had been. His tongue had been large, intrusive, and it made Tweek think of those big, ugly eels that live in coral. It felt too big to fit in Tweek's tiny mouth and it was slimy and gross. His beard scraped against the sensitive skin of Tweek's face and his nose presses into his cheek.

He had also put his tongue somewhere else that day. Somewhere disgusting that had made Tweek cry into his arms with humiliation.

Butters know that feeling, he realizes. That's what his uncle had done to him.

Tweek sighs and looks at his phone lying beside him on the bed. It's between his history book and his math book, screen dark. He picks it up and brings up the contacts screen again. He's called Butters a dozen times since New Years Eve and he's never picked up. Never responded to his voicemails. Never messaged him back after one of his casual sounding texts.

He presses the call button and brings it up to his ear. It rings. One, twice, three-the ringing stops.

“Hello?” The voice was annoyed, uncharacteristically loud for Butters who usually spoke quietly and calmly.

“Oh, uh, hi, Butters?”

“Tweek, what do you want?” Butters asked, cutting right to the point. “Haven't you noticed yet I'm trying to ignore you?”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing.” Tweek put on his phone happy voice. The one he always used when Ghost asked him how he felt. “How's school?”

“Fine. How's my father's cock?”

Tweek winces at the accusing tone.

“How would I know?”

“Well you're sucking it, aren't you?”

“You mean at this exact moment? It'd be pretty hard to talk you know?”

“Don't be stupid. You know what I mean.”

Tweek sighs. He doesn't want to deal with this. He knew Butters knew, why else would he be avoiding him, but he doesn't need to bring it up.

“It's not like I'm having an affair with him or anything,” Tweek confides, pleading for him to understand. “He's just a regular at the Spa. We bump into each other sometimes.”

“The Spa? You mean that bathhouse my dad used to go to when I was a kid?” Butters sounds upset now. Not just angry, but like he's been betrayed.

“Yeah, that place,” Tweek says quietly.

“He told my mom he stopped going there years ago,” Butter says, sounding defeated. “He almost destroyed our family with those visits.”

“Your dad's a pretty good liar,” Tweek replies. But he figures Butters probably already knows that.

“Why are you going to a place like that anyway?” Butter demands to know. “That place is disgusting. Just a bunch of gross, hairy, fat old guys. You have Craig. Craig is pretty darn attractive, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Is he, is he a bottom? Or you don't want to be a bottom?” Butters has changed his tone of voice, switching from pissed off to wannabe therapist. “You can talk out that sort of thing, you know. I never thought Eric would be up for taking my wiener but he surprised me. There's always room for compromise when you love someone.”

“I don't know what he is,” Tweek bites out, bitterly. “He won't touch me.”

“He won't touch you? I saw you two making out all over the place at that party last month.”

“And you saw about as far as he'll go,” Tweek responds, trying to disguise the anguish in his voice. Unsuccessfully. “I've been trying for weeks to get him to have sex with me but he doesn't want to touch me. He has no interest in fucking me.”

“Oh geez. Tweek, if you think Craig isn't attracted to you then you must be blind.”

“Right, he just has no interest in sex in general? Do you know he fucked Kyle?”

“What? How, uh, yeah. I mean, yeah, we all knew about that.”

“I didn't,” Tweek replies, his voice now practically bleeding with pain. “I guess he had no trouble sticking it to him.”

It had been Pete who had told him about that, the goth kid he had hooked up with in the bathroom. He had run into him at Starbucks a week after the incident and they had chatted while waiting for their orders to be filled. Pete hadn't realized Tweel and Craig were dating until he had heard some rumors at school and dropped some catty comment about how much hotter Tweek was than “That Jewish kid Craig was banging a few years ago.”

“Well, I suppose Craig didn't think you needed to know about that,” Butters says. Despite his anger with Tweek it's just in his nature to be kind and his voice is soothing. “It's in the past. Everybody knows Stan and Kyle will never break up so Kyle isn't a threat.”

“It still would've been nice to know what my boyfriend was up to while I was being raped on a daily basis,” Tweek spits out. “I don't care that he didn't save himself for me or some shit like that, but he could have told me about it.”

“Well did you ever ask him about dating other people while you were gone?”

“No,” Tweek admits, guilty.

“Then you can't blame anybody but yourself. Especially when you're out there whoring yourself out to creepy old men.”

“Like your dad?”

“Yeah, like him,” Butter confirms. “Do you know how hard it was to finish out Christmas vacation with him around the house? Thinking about what you two did together in Kyle's house?”

“I don't think it's healthy for you to be fixated on what your dad's doing with his dick.”

“I don't think it's healthy for him to be having sex with somebody his son's age.”

“He used a condom,” Tweek offers.

“That's not what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tweek sighs. “Butters?”

“Hm?” Butters sound distracted, like maybe he's playing a video game or something while he's talking to him. Or painting his nails. Tweek bets Butters paints his toenails.

“Did your dad ever...when you were a kid?” Tweek avoids saying the actual words.

“Ever what?” Butters ask, still distracted.

“You know. Did you two ever fool around?”

There was a long pause then. Three, four seconds.

“Are you asking me if my father molested me?”

“Maybe?”

“No!” Butters cries out, horror in his voice. “God, no. Why would you ask that?”

“Just some stuff he said to me,” Tweek brushes off Butters' question.

“What sort of stuff?”

“He just, well, he confessed, I guess,” Tweek stumbled over his words. “He said he found me attractive as a kid. In a sexual way. And I mean, you were a cute kid too, you know?”

“My dad said he was into kids?”

“He didn't say in general. I don't know. It was during the middle of, well, maybe he was just trying to speak dirty talk. Badly.”

“Fuck,” he hears Butters curse. Butters doesn't swear that often and it sounds jarring coming from him.

“What?”

“I'm just thinking, trying to figure out if there was any weird times. And yeah, I can think of a few.” Butters sounds panicked now, his voice tight.

“Like what?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” he says lowly. “I gotta, I gotta go. You can text me. I want to talk to you some more but I kinda need to be alone right now.”

“Alright,” he agrees.

Butters hangs up the phone before he gets a chance to say goodbye. Tweek wonders about the panic in his voice. It's interesting how much you can tell from somebody's voice. Ghost normally had this way of speaking to him that had been very kind and very calm. Reminiscent of a preschooler kid's show. He wonders if that was how he had talked to his own students? Sometimes Ghost sounded unhappy though. Angry. Stressed. Upset. He never took his anger out on Tweek but when he was angry Tweek knew that sex would soon follow. Ghost said sex helped clear his head.

Chile had talked a bit like Ghost. But his voice had been smoother, deeper. But always faker. He had never sensed any phoniness in Ghost's voice. Ghost was always genuine.

He doesn't want to think of Chile. He's still certain that Chile is in this town, just up at the hospital, but how could he convince anybody of such a thing? He hasn't told anybody about it, he doesn't want to be told he's imagining things.

Sighing, Tweek opens up his biologically textbook. It's the chapter on sexual reproduction. Right, like he doesn't know enough about that. Oh, look, a description of the human prostate.

 

* * *

 

It's February twelfth.

It's 12:05 in the morning, but it is February twelfth. And Tweek is alone.

Craig said he would be here for his anniversary. He told him that yesterday, the eleventh, before he went home at ten. That was only two hours ago, but it was yesterday.

Because today is now the twelfth.

He hadn't wanted Craig to leave but Craig had to leave. Today is Monday, which means Craig should be going to school in a few hours, but he won't be. He'll tell his mother he is, he'll get dressed and head out like he was going to school, but he'll just drive over to Tweek's house instead. Craig's not allowed to sleep over on school nights.

Tweek's anniversary and Craig's anniversary are two different things. To Tweek, his anniversary starts at midnight. He was taken from his room at 2:30 in the morning so maybe that is slightly premature, but it is still the date. For Craig his anniversary starts at seven, when he didn't show up to walk to school with him. Craig isn't thinking about when Tweek was taken, he is thinking about when he lost him. To Craig, Tweek's anniversary is about himself.

Tweek lays in bed, reading a book, and waiting. He watches the clock, checking it every five minutes. He turns a page, and checks the clock. He reads about Franny's mom shooting the man with the gun she hides under her apron, and turns a page. He reads about Franny's father burning the skin of her leg with carbolic acid, and turns a page. He reads about the doctor telling her it was all a dream before jabbing a needle into her, and turns a page.

At 2:30 he stands up and he walks to the end of his bed. There's a stuffed bear on the pillow, a gift from Craig. He walks back to the bed and tucks the bear into the bed, then returns to the end of the bed. He looks at the bear. Watches it sleep. Cute. Soft. Innocent.

He wonders how that works. How you can look at something so much smaller than yourself, something naive and pure, and want to hurt it. He can't imagine wanting to fuck the teddy bear.

He picks up the teddy bear. It's not wearing any clothes. Tweek digs out one of his smallest t-shirts and puts it over the bear, covering its nakedness. Then he goes downstairs, puts on his coat and shoes and goes outside.

Tweek's thinking he's going to take Bear Tweek to see what nine-year-old Tweek had seen. But he realizes the children from that adopted family are grown up now. That old woman with the flat tire might be dead, might've been put into an old folk's home, might have been sold in a sex trafficking ring. Wherever she is, she's not going to be on the side of the road in the middle of the night.

He and Bear Tweek go for a walk together, looking for acts of human kindness, but there is none to find. All the windows in town are dark. If human kindness does still exist, it's asleep. He holds Bear Tweek close to himself, shivering. Why does he seem to spend so much time outside at night?

He's near the school when a car pulls over, lights washing over him. He steps to the side, trying to avoid it. Bear Tweek is hugged to his chest protectively.

“Did you need a ride?” a male voice comes from inside.

Why do people always think he's hitchhiking? Can't you walk around in the middle of night without anybody pulling over?

He gets in the car anyway.

“Oh geez, it's you,” the man groans. “I was hoping for some hot hitchhiker ass and I get the psycho fagling instead.”

Tweek stares at the man, horrified.

“Mr. Garrison?”

He's aged badly. There's hardly any hair left on his head and even in the car lighting he can see the new mass of wrinkles creasing his face. His throat hangs like a turkey wattle.  
“Alright Tweek, where do you live? I'll drop you off.”

“I, I don't want to go home,” he stutters, fingers digging into Bear Tweek. “Are there any bars open?”

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

“No,” he admits. “But I'd suck off Eric Cartman for a drink right now.”

“I know a place,” Garrison says elusively.

Tweek should've known it wouldn't be a legitimate place from the get go. No bars are even open this late, it's against the law to sell beer after two. So when Garrison pulls into the driveway of what appears to be an ordinary house he isn't exactly surprised.

There's a bouncer inside, the entrance being at the back of the house rather than the front. He looks at Garrison and nods, recognizing him, then he looks at Tweek.

“Is this kid legal?”

“He's with me,” Garrison drawls.

At first Tweek assumes he has taken him to some shady ass gay bar. There's half naked men walking around with leather straps across their chests, glistening as if they have rubbed down their bodies with oil. That seems likely. Then Tweek spots a woman in a tight latex suit walk by, leash in hand, a burly man with a beard following after her.

Garrison leads him to the bar. It's where a kitchen would normally be, Tweek can see the sink behind the bartender. The windows are all covered in black paper, or maybe it's plastic or something. Tweek has no way of knowing. He sets Bear Tweek on the stool next to him.

“Garrison,” the bartender greets him. He's an attractive man, younger looking than most of the men here, with a head of curly black hair. “Who's the eye candy?”

“Back off Anthony,” Garrison waves a hand at the man. “You're not getting this one.”

“Hey, I'm working,” the man holds up his hands. “But I'm off Saturday, if you feel like giving him the royal treatment. What's his limit?”

“I'm not sure,” Garrison says dryly. “But I'm betting it's pretty high.”

“Well let me know, so I know what to bring. For now, what'll it be?”

“Two Greyhounds,” Tweek's old teacher instructs, holding up two fingers. Tweek sits on his stool and looks around, waiting. Everything about this place seems dark. The lights are dim, shades of red and purple and blue. Everybody is wearing shades of black or deep red. The floor is black. The air itself is dark with the smell of tobacco. The music sounds foreboding.

“Here you go,” Anthony places a highball glass in front of him. It's murky pink, a hint of yellow cutting through the rosy glow. Tweek picks it up and takes a large swallow. It's bitter and the alcohol burns. He finishes it with only a couple more swallows. The bartender looks at Garrison who nods back at him. He takes the glass back and reaches for the vodka.

“So, Tweek,” Garrison says in that condescending voice Tweek remembers haunting his childhood. “I heard about everything that happened to you. Sounds sorta hot.”

“Of course it does,” Tweek sneers, not caring about upsetting this man. He always hated him. Garrison just laughs.

“Tell me the truth, son, were you even a virgin when you were taken? Or was that Tucker boy buggering your eyes out by then?”

“I've never fucked Craig,” Tweek says. “And this is pretty inappropriate. You realize this is the anniversary of it happening, right?”

“Ooh,” Garrison sounds giddy. “Is that why you were outside in the middle of the night? Waiting for another man to come along and abduct you? Do you want to play the naive little boy and I'll play the evil child molester?”

“I don't think you'd be playing that,” Tweek replies, looking at the dirty old man. “Didn't you try to chat up boys online? I remember seeing it in the paper. And they still let you teach us.”

“Well who else was going to put up with you little shits?” Garrison takes a sip from the Greyhound, savoring the taste as if he were drinking cranberry juice instead of drain cleaner.

“Anybody who would be paid to do so?” Tweek supplies. He's just noticed the stool turns. He twirls back and forth in it, kicking his feet. It's oddly amusing.

“Yeah, yeah. Anthony, make that a double.” Garrison calls to the barkeep. “You know, you grew up pretty cute for a spaz. You've got great cock-sucking lips.”

“So half the men at the White Swallow Spa have told me.”

“You go there?” Tweek feels proud to have surprised the king of absurdity. “That place is a hellhole. Only the closeted fags frequent that place.”

“Well I'm too young to go to the real bars. You can take four dicks at once if you're eighteen but not have a beer.”

“Doesn't that sound fun,” Garrison muses, resting his chin in his hand. “True story?”

“No,” he admit, still twirling on his stool. “I've never done more than one a night.”

“Still, what a treasure you have grown up to be,” Garrison eyes him, obviously undressing him with his eyes. “If I had known what a little doll you could be I would've abducted you myself all those years ago.”

Tweek feels himself shudder. He might have found the one prospect worse than being taken by Ghost. Ghost at least, in his own perverse way, loved Tweek. He was part son, part sex slave, but he did try to be kind to him. Tweek doubted Garrison would have even thought of reading to him or coloring with him or watching movies with him. He probably would've chained him up in the corner with a collar around his neck. He stops twirling.

He picks up his new drink and drains half of it in one swallow. It's much stronger than the last. He coughs at the burn, feeling his stomach lurch.

“These taste like shit,” he says. “What is it?”

“Vodka and grapefruit juice,” Anthony calls over his shoulder. He's serving another woman. Like the first Tweek had seen she's leading a man in a collar but this man is small, not as short as Tweek but close. His hair is long and brown, so silky it seems to shine in the dim lighting. The red light make it looks auburn from certain angles. Tweek wonders if he's a vamp kid.

“Can I get something else?”

“What would you like?”

“Something that doesn't taste like ass.”

“Make him a Long Island Iced Tea,” Garrison tells him. “The little fagling obviously can't handle his hard liquor.”

Tweek finishes his Greyhound anyway, despite shuddering at the taste of it. The Long Island Iced Tea looks like a generic cola. Not dark enough to be a Coke or Pepsi but dark brown like a store brand cola. He sips it and finds it not disgusting. Why would people even order that Greyhound shit when this tastes so much better?

Garrison orders his second drink.

“So what have you been doing with your spare time? Or do you just always wander around the school like some pervert?”

“You're one to speak.” Tweek snorts. He sips at his tea. This really is pretty good. It doesn't taste like a tea but it's sweet and doesn't burn like the other drink had. “I'm studying, to get my GED.”

“A Good Enough Diploma?” Garrison mocks. “Yeah, that'll do you a lot of good. Maybe that'll help you become a manager at Taco Bell.”

“You're an asshole.”

“I know, sweetie.” Garrison reaches over and pats Tweek's knee. “You kids told me that on a daily basis. Still do, actually.”

“You're still teaching?” That fact is pretty incredible. How has no parent got him fired yet, after all these years? This is the man that shoved a gerbil up his lover's ass in front of a classroom full of impressionable young children.

“Unfortunately,” he sighs. “I can pull the gay card, the lesbian card, and the transgender card, so they're afraid to fire me. But that job is eating my soul one day at a time.”

“That explains a lot,” Tweek says.

Garrison still has his hand on Tweek's knee. He scoots closer to him, sitting on the edge of his stool, and slides his hand up to rest on his inner thigh. Tweek looks down at his hand. The hairs on the back of his hand are gray, the skin wrinkled. He's aged a lot in less than ten years. He wonders how old Mr. Garrison really is. He knows lifestyle can cause a person to age prematurely. He rocks back and forth in his chair again. Stops when the earth seems to slip beneath him.

When Tweek doesn't push his hand away Garrison slips his hand up farther, cupping Tweek between his legs. He leaves it there, a heavy presence on his crotch as they finish their drinks. Every so often he squeezes him or rubs him or just fondles him in a general manner. Tweek isn't sure if he's surprised he's getting hard or not.

They finish their drinks at the same time. Anthony asks them if they need another.

“Anymore and he won't be able to perform,” Garrison turns away the offer. “Come on Tweek, let's find an open room.”

He grabs Bear Tweek and follows the man. He expects to find a room like the ones at the Spa, just a bed and maybe a table for their clothes. The first room they come upon is empty, lucky them, and when Garrison opens the door there is a bed in there. And some handcuffs on the ceiling. And a swing hanging from the ceiling. And dear God, is that a rack?

“What's your kink?” the older man asks him. “Bondage? Whips? Fire?”

“I don't know if I have a kink,” he confesses.

“Well, what makes you come the hardest?”

He bites at his lip as he thinks about it, his eyes turned to his feet.

“Maybe not whips,” he says. “But could you maybe act like you're forcing me? Like I don't want it?”

“Rape fantasies?” Garrison muses. “Yeah, I can do that. Let me get the cuffs.”

“No cuffs,” Tweek interrupts. “Just use your hands. Hold me down, pull my hair, choke me. But nothing but your hands. And, uh, can I call you daddy?”

At this Garrison smiles. A big smile. Not a sneer, but not something wholesome and delightful either.

“Of course son. Now it's getting late, it's time for good little boys to go to bed.”


	17. Craig

Craig sits in his car, engine off but the keys still dangling from the ignition. The warmth from the heater is quickly dissipating as he stares at the flowers on the seat beside him. He had opted out of roses, partly because of the holiday jack up price, and partly out of self-consciousness. Roses were suggestive. They suggested passion and sex and dancing along a golden lit river on a warm summer evening. And while Craig wants all those things with Tweek someday, barring the dancing because he doesn't dance, he feels like he isn't ready to show that level of passion just yet.

He wanted something light, something joyous. He'd opted for the daffodils because they had reminded him of Tweek's hair, yellow, spiky, jutting out at all angles. Some small white and purple flowers are scattered among the larger blooms. Little accents of color to break up the monotony. The bright yellow bouquet seemed so perfect at the flower-shop but now he's starting to regret his decision.

Is it appropriate to give another boy flowers? Or is that insulting? Would Tweek think he was treating him like a girl? It's hard to be in a gay relationship. All the movies that set the benchmark for these sort of things are always been a man and a woman. How do you do romance without it turning into a stereotype? Chug beer and high five each other instead of kissing over champagne?

Maybe he should've went with a rose. Just one rose. That wouldn't have been as awkward. It's much easier to hand somebody a single rose than a large bouquet of flowers. He's such an idiot.

Tweek is probably waiting on him. And there's nowhere to hide the flowers now anyway. Even if he hid them in the back Tweek would see them later. He grabs them and opens the driver's side door. The young boy won't judge him over this. Tweek is too nice to taunt him over wanting to bring him a gift. Besides, the rest of their date should make him happy even if the flowers don't. A movie and Chipotle. He hopes Tweek gets why he's bringing him to those places. He hopes he remembers. They're finally going to get to go on their Valentine's date they missed so many years ago.

Of course, for that Valentine's date he hadn't planned on picking up a box of condoms before heading over to Tweek's house. Craig is still uncertain about this. He doesn't plan on starting anything, he won't force the subject with Tweek, but he's decided it's time to stop pushing him away. He has a pack of Trojans as well as an unopened bottle of lubricant tucked in a roll of blankets in his backseat. He's going to let Tweek lead the way tonight, in that matter. If nothing happens then he's perfectly fine with that as well.

His plan is to take Tweek stargazing after the movie. He's found a perfect spot in the woods, close enough you can see the pond but not close enough that people who actually came for the view of it will have any reason to be there. A lot of couples go to the pond to make out and he's betting it will be a hot spot on Valentine's night. But they'll be on the opposite side of the body of water as everyone else. He found the spot years ago by accident and he's never taken anybody else there. It's an easy-to-reach spot, protected from the worst of the snow by an assortment of trees and rocks. Even in February the ground should be clean enough for him to avoid getting stuck in his shitty car. The canopy of trees in his clearing frames the stars overhead like a decorative screen, more beautiful than any velvet curtains. He's spent a lot of time over the years there, looking up through his sunroof., wondering if Tweek was looking at the same stars.

Craig is still not sure if he believes Tweek is fully capable of consenting to sex but their touches have become more and more heated lately. He's no longer hesitant with his touches, stingy with his kisses. His boyfriend keeps pushing it more, wanting more. More touches, more kisses, more heat, more friction. At this point turning him away is starting to feel cruel.

It's Valentine's Day. If Tweek tries to push it further tonight than Craig will let him. He'll show him how much he means to him by making love to him under the stars. Maybe it'll be a healing experience for his lover. Craig feels like maybe being inside of him will be cleansing, smoothing away the imprint Ghost had left behind, like smoothing down a person's imprint left on a bed's rumpled sheets.

He adjusts his belt, leveling the right side which always seems to dip just a bit on its own. He's trying to look more presentable than usual tonight. He raises his hand to knock on the door.

It opens before his knuckles touch the wood. Craig jumps in surprise, startled by the sudden movement. The knock goes unrealized.

It's not Tweek. He had imagined it being Tweek in his head the entire time, inexplicably dressed in a fawn-colored suit, his hair tamed. The entire fantasy made no sense since Craig had told him to dress casual and he doubted Tweek even owned a suit, let alone one as impractical as a fawn-colored one.

Imaginary Tweek was also supposed to smile sweetly at him, almost virginal-like with rosy cheeks and flirtatious eyes. The woman who answers the door is not smiling, but he supposes her face is rosy. Her face is red and she's screaming as something hits Craig in the face. He grabs at his forehead, reflexively, and miraculously grabs the plastic-paper object she has chucked at him.

“What is this you little shit?”

He opens his hand, his right hand, the hand not holding the flowers, and stares at the incredibly light object resting on his palm. He does not immediately comprehend what he's holding. An Alka Seltzer wrapper?

“I let you in my house, allowed you to share a bed with my son, and you just go ahead and defile him behind my back?”

It's a condom wrapper, Craig suddenly realizes, still staring at the blue square in his hand. The edges are crimped like a shell from the ocean.

“Don't you realize that boy is traumatized? He was raped!” She slaps his hand. He drops the wrapper and it flutters to the ground.

How did she find the condoms? He just bought them this afternoon. Did she break into his car while he was parked in front of the flower shop?

“This whole time you were pretending to care about him and you were just using him for your own sick pleasure!”

No, that's not right. That's a crazy thought. He had just checked on the condoms before he drove over, making sure they weren't visible in their blanket cocoon. He didn't want Tweek to feel obligated to do anything so he had thought it best not to present sex as an offer with him. He glances down at the wrapper at his feet. The top is torn open. It says _durex_ across the front, in all lowercase letters.

Those were Trojans in his car.

“I want you to stay away from my son, you little son of a bitch!”

“Where did you find that?” he asks quietly, still staring at the shiny blue object. It flutters as a gust of wind washes by them but stays put, protected in its nest between Craig's shoes.

“In Tweek's jean pockets when I went to do the laundry,” she snaps. “Did you think I wouldn't find out if you two hid it well enough?”

“I've never had sex with Tweek,” he says so lowly he's not sure if she hears him. “I've never even let him see me naked. That's not my condom.”

She glares at him, her eyes scanning like a human lie detector. Then she steps back, allowing him to enter the house after her. Craig closes the door behind himself as she walks over towards the stairs.

“Tweek!” she calls up the flight of stairs, her voice echoing in the high ceiling. “Get down here!”

“Be right down!!” the familiar voice calls back. It takes about fifteen seconds before they hear Tweek's footsteps on the stairs. It's a tense fifteen seconds, with Craig staring at Mrs. Tweak in shock as she stares back at him, anger burning into her features.

“Hey, Craig,” Tweek greets, his hand trailing down the railing. He has such long, elegant fingers. He's wearing a fawn-colored sweater and Craig almost starts crying. “Almost ready, just let me get my shoes.”

“Tweek,” Mrs. Tweak's voice is just as harsh with her son as it had been with Craig a minute ago. “Are you and Craig having sex?”  
“What?” Tweek looks at his mother, horrified, stopping mid-step. “Mom, why would you ask that?”

“Go ahead, answer the question,” Craig instructs, his voice shaking despite himself. “Just tell her the truth, it's fine.”

Tweek looks at Craig, clearly confused.

“No, Mom, Craig and I are not having sex.” He confirms Craig's story.

“Then who are you having sex with?” She asks. Her eyes are nothing but dark slits, glaring at her only child.

“What are you talking about?” Tweek's voice trembles. He's a poor liar. A good actor, but not when it counts.

“She found an open condom wrapper in your pocket,” Craig says. The words feel like boiling oil in his throat. Would it be better to swallow it down or spit it out? Do you care more about your mouth or your stomach? The truth or sweet lies?

Tweek stands where he is, halfway down the stairs, holding the railing. He's looking at Craig, ignoring his mother completely now. Craig stares back at him, trying to steel himself.

It doesn't work. His eyes sting as tears begin to form.

“Craig,” Tweek says pleadingly. Craig doesn't know what he's pleading for. To drop the conversation? To be understanding? To believe him as he lies to him again?

“What have you been doing, Tweek?” He asks him. He hates how pathetic his own voice sounds. That isn't how Craig Tucker is supposed to sound.

The blond descends the last few stairs, approaching Craig. Craig allows him to step about three feet away from him before he steps back, keeping a space between them. If he lets Tweek too close, if he lets him hold him, he'll break.

“What did you do?” He demands.

Tweek stops in his tracks. He's still looking at Craig but now he drops his eyes, no longer meeting the other boy's. Craig feels a tear slide down his cheek and ignores it. Doesn't attempt to wipe it away. His nose is burning now.

“I just needed it.” Tweek sighs.

“Needed what?”

“I don't know,” he sniffs. Craig doesn't feel any regret or satisfaction in making Tweek cry.

“Was it just once?”

Tweek shakes his head.

“Was it the same person every time?”

Another shake. Craig feels like his gusts are being pulled out through a hole in his chest.

“How long?”

“Mid-December,” he says quietly. “I don't remember the exact date. Maybe around the tenth?”

“Do I know them?” Craig demands. He wants to know what boys have been laughing at him behind his back. If they are boys. Would Tweek be into girls? Either way, everybody in the school knows Tweek is his.

“It's South Park,” Tweek mutters lamely. “Of course you know some of them.”

“Butters?”

Another shake. “Of course not.”

“Who then? How many?”

“Craig, you don't want to hear this.”

“No, I don't,” he concedes. “But I need to.”

Tweek sighs and looks at his mother. He seems simultaneously both many years older and younger than his true age. His face is vulnerable, exposed, like a baby kitten pulled from it's mother's teat, but his body seems bent like that of an old man's, crushed by the weight of the world.

“Mom,” he begs, turning to her.

“No,” she stands with her arms crossed, waiting. “Tell him. With me in the room.”

Craig nods, also waiting. But his arms aren't crossed. His arms hang limply on both side, one of them still holding the bouquet of daffodils. Tweek sighs again. He walks part Craig, around the sofa, and he sits on it with his back turned to both of them. He leans forward, resting his head in his hands, his legs spread slightly, elbows resting on his thighs. Neither Craig nor Mrs. Tweak move an inch to join him. Craig stares at the back of Tweek's head, at the base of his neck where the skin is just showing, pale and soft. That's the place where he likes to kiss them as they spoon.

“All of them or just the ones you know?” Tweek asks, clearly resigned.

“How many in all, and the ones I know,” Craig instructs.

Tweek is quiet for a long moment and Craig's stomach cramps. He feels nauseous. Does his boyfriend need to _count_ how many men he's fucked behind his back?

“Eleven,” he says finally. Craig's breath catches in his throat.

“Names,” Mrs. Tweak demands. “I want to know what sick perverts in this town would do this.”

Another pause. This one isn't nearly as long.

“Mr. Stotch,” he says finally. “He's the one I've been with the most. Jimbo. You know, Stan's uncle? I don't know if you know him.”

“Of course I do,” Craig says. “He has a fucking hunting show on TV.”

“Do you really want me to go on?”

Craig nods. Mrs. Tweak grits her teeth, not speaking.

“Pete. He's one of the goth kids from our grade. The one with the red streaks in his hair, you know him, right?”

“Yes.”

“And the last one, um,” Tweek hesitates. He mumbles the name so quietly Craig can't make out the name.

The last one? So only four who weren't complete strangers? That means Tweek had sex with seven random men? Craig isn't sure if that makes him feel better or worse. If it was somebody they knew he'd have to feel jealousy and resentment every time he sees them in the future. He'd have to deal with them looking at him, at Tweek, and knowing.

But knowing he was just taking any random stranger that would have him? How desperate had he been? Would any dick do the job?

“I didn't catch that,” Mrs. Tweak says, commenting on the last mumbled name.

“Mr. Garrison,” Tweek whispers just as quietly but speaking more clearly this time.

“Jesus Christ,” Mrs. Tweak breathes. “You're disgusting.”

Tweek's body seems to shrink into itself. He can't see his face from behind him but Craig can see the shaking of his shoulders. He's crying. Either silently or very quietly, but the movement is unmistakable.

He doesn't say anything to him. What can he say to him? Good job Tweek, you can take a dick better than Mr. Slave? Images rush through his head of Tweek and Mr. Stotch, Mr. Garrison, Jimbo. Images of him moaning as he rides a faceless man, eyes shut in pleasure, mouth open, lips red.

“I want you out of this house in five minutes,” Mrs. Tweak's words seem to wake him from this vision, harsh and immediate like switching on the lights of a movie theater in his head. “I'll pack your things and you can come pick them up later, when I'm not here. I don't want you under the same roof with me a moment longer than necessary.”

“Mom!” Tweek jumps up and turns to look at his mother. His face is soaked with tears. Not damp but shiny and wet.

“You're a filthy, disgusting whore, I won't allow that in this household.”

“Mom,” he pleads again. “Please, I just-”

She holds up her index finger, shushing him. He quiets instantly, lips quivering. Nobody says anything for a long minute.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Just let me get a couple things from my room and I'll go.”

He's only upstairs a couple of minutes. Craig goes back into that seedy movie theater in his mind. Now he's imagining his boyfriend being taken from both ends, Stotch in the front, Garrison in the back. Tweek looks at his as he passes, rubbing his face miserably, backpack over one shoulder.

“Okay, I'm, I'm leaving now,” he calls out, standing beside the front door. His mom has left the room. His voice sounds small.

Craig follows him outside. Tweek's starting to walk to one side, heading towards the sidewalk. Roughly, Craig grabs him by the backpack and shoves him against the passenger door of his car. He makes a pained noise as the breath is knocked out of him.

“Get in,” Craig demands, opening his own door. He throws the flowers in the back seat.

“Craig-”

“Shut up. Get your ass in the fucking car.”

Craig doesn't even care that Tweek doesn't buckle his seatbelt. Fine, let him die in a car accident. Let them drive off a bridge together and both die. He doesn't give a shit.

Tweek weeps in the passenger seat as Craig drives. He doesn't know where he's driving to. Not home. Not yet. Not until they've both calmed down. He doesn't want this drama around his family.

He drives out into the country, past the farms and the cows. Then he turns and drives out past the old Wal-Mart and the abandoned Blockbuster. He fidgets with the radio, leaving it on some classic rock station. The Eagles drone on about wine and beasts. He drives to North Park and contemplates driving to Denver. He can't stand the thought of being in that much traffic right now. He turns around and goes back to the farmlands.

“I can't fucking believe you,” he finally spits out after 45 minutes of pointless circling. He keeps his eys on the road.

“I'm sorry!” Tweek sobs. He reaches over to touch Craig's thigh and Craig pushes his hand off.

“You were supposed to have waited for me. What the fuck were you doing?”

“I don't know.” Tweek cries.

“Why did you fuck all those old guys?” Craig demands to know. He can't help how angry his voice sounds. He is angry.

“I don't know!”

“Do you even love me?” He asks, emphasizing the fourth word of the sentence by enunciating it louder and more roughly than the others.  
“I don't know!”

Craig grits his teeth so hard he's afraid they'll crack. His jaw aches.

“I was waiting for you,” he says through his teeth. “I was waiting until you were better. I wanted it to mean something.”

“I know.”

“And really? Mr. Garrison? Seriously?” Craig reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair. Angrily, he grabs a chunk of it and pulls. It hurts, the roots screaming against his scalp. The pain feels good but he lets go and hits the steering wheel. “How did it feel having that monstrosity of a dick inside you? Could you see the stitches still?”

Tweek sobs into his hands. Craig turns the car back towards town.

“I wanted to be with you,” Craig tells him. “I was going to do it tonight. You couldn't just fucking wait?”

“Why did you insist on making me wait?” Tweek demands, turning towards him, suddenly defiant. His voice sounds clogged. “I wanted to do it with you! But you turned me away because you didn't want some pedophile's sloppy seconds!”

“That's not how it is and you know it!” Craig screams at him. He hates this. Hates losing control of his emotions. He punches his window now, angrily. It shakes but doesn't break.

“Of course that's how it is!” Tweek insists. “You can't even fucking touch me!”

“Do you even know me?” Craig asks, voice going quiet, cold. “If you think I'm that horrible why are you even with me?”

“I don't know!” Tweek cries out again. “Why were we ever together in the first place? I don't even remember!”

“What even are you?” Craig asks. “Just some psycho slut willing to take anything with a dick? Fuck! I wanted to marry you!”

“You knew I was damaged goods months ago.” Tweek accuses. “You can't blame me now.”

“Damaged goods?” Craig asks incredulously. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I don't know!” Tweek screams. Then he's tugging at the door handle. It's locked but the blond unlatches it and yanks the door open before Craig can stop him. They're going nearly fifty. He screeches on the breaks. The car slides sideways near the edge of the road before coming to a sudden stop.

“Where are you going?” he demands, grabbing for him. Tweek scrambles out the door, falling onto his hands and knees as he tumbles from his seat.

“Wherever I fucking want!” He pulls himself up and slams the door shut behind him. He's already walking down the road before Craig gets another word in edgewise. His backpack bounces off his shoulder.

“Tweek! Get your ass back in this car!” Craig tells out the passenger window as he slowly drives beside the walking boy.

“Go to hell!”

“Fine!” Craig flips him off. “Stay out here and freeze your balls off! See if I care!”

He slams on the gas, leaving Tweek behind in a splatter of brown road-slide slush. Tweek yells something after him and Craig looks back in the mirror to see him wiping the slush from his face with his arm.

Craig can't take this. After everything he's done for Tweek. After how many years he wasted pining for him. He turned down a fucking college offer for him! He went through his entire high school career without dating out of some misplaced sense of loyalty for him. He's wasted half his senior year missing out on various activities just to be with him.  
He wants to call Clyde. To bitch about the situation with him, like they always do when everything goes to shit in their lives. But he even gave up Clyde for him. He gave up his best friends in the entire world for a worthless cheating whore.

It's already dark out by the time he notices the flowers still lying in the back seat where he had thrown them.

He makes up his mind where he wants to go.

The clearing is empty when he arrives. He parks in the middle of it with a squeal, leaving a muddy mess of tire tracks behind him. He doesn't care. He grabs the flowers and throws them on the ground. The paper wrap around them catches fire easily but the flowers themselves burn much slower, singeing along the stem, wilting the heads.

“Dude, what are you doing?” a familiar voice interrupts his enraged solitude.

Craig screams angrily and kicks the flaming bundle into a pile of snow.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” he demands, pointing a finger in Stan Marsh's face.

“We're going on a Valentine's stroll,” Kyle counters, pulling himself closer to Stan. Their arms are entwined in a pathetcally sickening way. “What are you doing here?”

“Setting shit on fire. Obviously.”

“Dude, that's a bad idea,” Stan protests, looking at the still smoking bundle of vegetation. “This is a forest. What if you caught everything on fire?”

“Stan, you fucking dumb shit, if you haven't noticed we're surrounded by snow.” Craig points towards the endless miles of the annoying white crap. “See that? Snow doesn't burn!”

“Yeah, well, what if some small animal comes by and ate the ashes? It could make them really sick.”

“I don't give a shit about small animals.”

“Only blond ones with big blue eyes, huh?” Kyle mocks.

“Don't you fucking talk about him.” Craig turns his anger toward Kyle, giving him his best glare. Kyle might be the only kid in school he can give a better glare than Craig.

“Why not? He stand you up on Valentine's Day?”

“Like you're one to talk.” Craig scoffs. “Is this how Stan woos you? Taking you into the frozen woods to save baby shrews?”

“I took him out for Italian,” Stan protests, somehow pulling Kyle even closer to him. Anymore closer they'd be Siamese twins. Sounds like the fucking wonder couple's wet dream. “Don't presume you know anything about our relationship.”

“It's not worth the effort anyway,” Craig sneers. “Kyle's a little slut. I didn't even buy him a can of Chef Boyardee the first time I fucked him.”

Craig enjoys the look of pain on Stan's face. It's not a secret but it's not something people like to bring up to Stan either.

“Craig, shut the fuck up,” Kyle demands.

“You two are the ones that barged into my clearing,” he points out.

“You don't own the woods, Craig,” Stan tells him. And God, why is his voice always so calm sounding. Does Stan never get pissed off? He always sounds like he's on sedatives.

“Neither do you assholes, despite what you guys seem to think,” Craig bites back.

“What's that supposed too mean?” Kyle demands, taking a step towards Craig. It's not working. This dominant alpha BS might work with some people but Kyle only comes to Craig's Adam's apple.

“Oh come on, you guys have always acted like you owned the whole fucking town.”

“No we haven't!” Stan sounds like Craig had just insulted his mother. After fucking her. In the ass.

“You and Kyle think you're the King and Queen Fags of the school. Tweek and I started that years before you two would even admit to liking dick.” Craig mocks, grinning cruelly. “And you didn't even get to deflower your princess Stan, aren't princesses supposed to stay virgins for their kings?”

Stan's the first one to swing. But Craig's the one who takes them both down. He tackles Stan onto his back and releases his anger onto his face, the feeling of flesh on flesh extremely satisfying. Until he's hit with a rush of something akin to a speeding train. He's knocked off of Stan and rolls onto his back, a hundred and forty pounds of angry red-headed Jew on top of him. He blocks Kyle's fist with his arms and grabs his wrists mid punch, rolling so he's back on top. He barely gets a single punch in before he's knocked off again, landing on his stomach this time. He feels hands on his head, grabbing him. His head smacks into the snow several times, his nose crunching against the frozen ground. The pressure on his back is cutting of his oxygen, stopping his lungs from expanding. He can't breathe. He wonders if one of his kidneys has been damaged.

“Stan, stop it!” Kyle's voice comes out fuzzy and distant. “He's had enough. I think you broke his nose.”

“He started it!”

“You're the one who threw the first punch.”

“He was asking for it.”

The pressure on his back lifts. Craig takes several deep breaths. They're icy from the snow and burn his aching lungs.

“Come on, get up,” Kyle's voice speaks next to him. There's a mittened hand next to his face. Craig glares at it but accepts it. He lets the other boy pull him up on his knees. His head hurts. It hurts to move his neck. He keeps his head bent down, chin almost against his chest. He takes a couple more deep breaths. His nose is already swelling. He touches it gingerly. It hurts. Maybe it's broken.

“He called you a slut,” Stan complains, peevishly.

“So what?” the higher voice asks. “It's not like his opinion matters and maybe I was acting a bit slutty when I slept with him. But it doesn't matter. All of that is past us. I have you and he has Tweek.”

“I told you not to talk about him,” Craig mutters, wiping at his nose. There's blood.

“Craig, where exactly is Tweek?” Stan asks. He steps closer, his shoes falling into Craig's line of sight.

“Who knows? Probably fucking your dad or something.”

“Why would he be fucking my dad?”

“Because he's fucked almost every male over the age of forty in this town by the sound of it,” he bites out. Then he admits the truth. “He's been cheating on me.”  
“Oh, dude,” Kyle breathes. It doesn't sound accusatory or scandalized. It sounds sympathetic. Craig really, really doesn't want pity from these two. “That's shitty.”

“Super shitty,” Stan agrees.

Craig climbs the rest of the way to his feet. His pants are soaking wet from the snow and he's freezing. He's ready to just go home.

“Happy Valentine's,” he says. Then he walks back to his car, ignoring their calls after him. Knowing them they're probably already planning his couples counseling session. They can never just mind their own fucking business.

It's not that late when he arrives home. His parents are watching television in the living room. Tricia is no where to be seen. She has a date tonight. She better not be out too late, Craig doesn't need to get into a fistfight with another teen boy. His parents look at him, his father opening his mouth to say something before he hears his mother punch him in the arm.

“There's some leftovers in the fridge, honey,” she offers.

“I'm going to take a bath,” he replies.

He hears his father whispering, loudly, about his nose.

He leaves his dirty, wet clothes in a heap by the toilet and sinks into the steaming bath gratefully. He feels frozen to the core. And exhausted. He soaks for nearly an hour, letting the steam seep through his sinus system, warming him from the inside as the hot water warms him from without. Then he crawls into bed in only a pair of boxers. He stares at the stars on his ceiling but he's emotionally drained and is dozing before he realizes it.

He jerks awake suddenly, startled by the feeling of falling. The wind has picked up outside and it sounds lonesome and mournful. It's snowing sideways, smacking against his window in little rolled up balls of the stuff.

Tweek could be out there, he realizes suddenly. His mother threw him out. He could be out there on the street with nowhere to go.

Or, God, he could be at some gay bar somewhere. Or at the Stotch house. What if he had gone to Butters' dad or Mr. Garrison, asking one of them to take him in for the night? What if he was getting fucked by some creepy old guy right now? On Valentine's Day?

He sits up and grabs for his phone. He fucked up, big time. His fingers shake as he brings up Tweek's number, impeding his progress. He waits on baited breath for Tweek to pick up. It goes straight to voicemail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think some of you were just waiting for this chapter.


	18. Pete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you were all expecting a Tweek chapter huh? Consider this an intermission. We all need a break from the drama in their heads.

It's just a little after one when Pete pulls his grandmother's Prius into the Benny's parking lot. He's still hyped up from his night out, even with the headache still lingering at the back of his skull, and trace amounts of alcohol and pot still thrum through his body.

He's not ready to go home and go to sleep yet.

But he can't go to Village Inn either. Not right now. Not when he's supposed to be visiting his grandmother out-of-state for the holiday.

He can't believe they fell for that. Who visits grandparents for Valentine's Day? Especially out-of-state grandparents on a Wednesday? Whatever, his friends are obviously idiots. If Michael were around he'd have known Pete was lying about his whereabouts. But Michael's on the east coast at some overpriced liberal arts school his parents are paying for.

Pete wants to follow him but he lives in a trailer park. He'll never be able to afford an out-of-state private school next fall. God, he misses Michael, but he can't tell him that. It's better for him to wallow in his own loneliness and unrequited love like a true goth, writing bad poetry and dripping his own blood onto black candles as a sacrifice to the gods of love. Why didn't he just confess when he was a junior?

Oh right, because Michael was fucking Henrietta all their junior year.

He finishes the cigarette he's smoking and throws it in the snow by the front door of the diner. This is why they stopped coming to Benny's in the first place. Some stupid ass rule about not smoking inside the restaurant. What's even the point of hanging out all night at a diner and drinking coffee if you can't smoke?

But he knows they're probably at the Village Inn, the smoker's sanctuary, because that's where they always spend their evenings. Unless they're at Henrietta's house, but her bitch of a mother is always poking her nose into their business when they're there.

Pete would offer to let them come to hang out in his room but his bedroom is uncomfortably cramped with more than two people in it and he's somewhat ashamed to live in a trailer while the rest of them have large houses with high-ceiling bedrooms. He's a goth, he should live in a giant Victorian with high ceilings and painted-glass windows.

Still, he's more ashamed of where he was tonight. Of what he was doing tonight.

They would absolutely spear him if they found out he had gone to a My Medical Relationship concert in Denver. Hell, he felt like beating himself up over it. But he couldn't help himself. Their music is like crack in his veins and when he had found out they were playing just an hour away he had purchased tickets to the show before he even considered the implications behind it. And it had ended up being the best concert of his life.

Oh God, was he going to turn emo now?

But it had been such a great show.

At least he hadn't danced. He had held onto some semblance of self respect. Standing in the middle of the crowd of jumping teenagers, smoking one cigarette after another.

He goes to sit at his regular seat, or his old regular seat anyway, and is annoyed to see somebody already seated in his booth. Until he realizes his recognizes the giant mess of bright blond hair.

“Do you like, just sit alone in diners in the middle of the night all the time?” Pete drawls, sliding in next to Tweek Tweak. And God, he looks good. His eyes are red, like he's been crying, and he looks broken. It's a good look on him. Shame he isn't wearing eyeliner. He could totally be a goth.

“I don't know, do you just drive from diner to diner trying to find me?” the blond counters back.

“Touche. Hey!” Pete waves at a waitress passing by, trying to order a cup of coffee. “Over here! Ugh, what a bitch.”

“Here,” Tweek slides his own still-full cup of coffee in front of the other boy. “I'm not drinking it.”

“You come to a diner in the middle of the night to stare at a cup of coffee?” Pete asks, picking up the mug. It's not as hot as he'd like but it's black. He sips at it.

“No where else to go,” Tweek explains, shrugging. He rests his chin in his hand and stares blankly out the window across from them. “Better than sitting outside in the snow.”

“Seriously?” Pete asks, looking at the boy. “What about your parents?”

“Mom kicked me out of the house.”

“Your jock boyfriend?”

“Kicked me out of his car.”

“That blows,” Pete says. He takes another sip from the coffee. “So are you, uh, available?”

“For what?” Tweek asks, then shakes his head. “What's it matter. It's not like I have anybody to make plans with.”

“I mean like, you know,” Pete drops his voice, feeling stupid because he's supposed to be hardcore and he's whispering like a pre-teen. “For sex? Since your boyfriend dumped you.”

Tweek rolls his eyes and reaches up to massage his temple.

“Fuck off,” he groans. “The last thing I need is another dick in me.”

“Come on,” Pete urges, keeping his voice gentle, like coaxing a stray kitten. He touches Tweek's lower back with his hand, splaying his fingers out and feeling the boy's spine beneath his palm. “I'll give you thirty this time.”

“Just for head?” Tweek asks skeptically.

“You told me last time that was all you were willing to do.”

“Last time, yeah,” Tweek agrees. He looks towards Pete and Pete can tell by looking at him that something is going on inside his head. “Alright, sure. Let's hit the bathroom.”

Tweek leads him into the bathroom, his finger hooked into one of Pete's belt loops, and pulls him into the handicap stall after him. He barely giving Pete time to latch the door shut behind them. The blond is on him, grabbing Pete by the hips and slamming him against the side of the solid wall side of the stall. It hadn't been like this last time. The boy hadn't been so forceful, so violent. It's a surprising turn on and Pete feels his cock twitch eagerly inside his black skinny jeans. Tweek is smaller than him as well, which feels nice. He only has maybe two inches on the blond, but he's used to being the smallest of all the guys, it makes him feel powerful.

Tweek presses his forehead against Pete's shoulder as he watches his own hands unclasp his belt. The tinkle of the metal is familiar yet alien to the goth's ears. He hears that sound every time he uses the bathroom or undresses for bed but never as a result of somebody else's actions. The leathery sound of his belt being pulled open makes his mouth water. Then there's the welcome feeling of his button being undone, his cock being freed from its confines. He's not wearing underwear, he never wears the childish tightie whities his grandmother still buys him, as if he were seven instead of seventeen.

Tweek grabs him in his hand, squeezing him, pulling at him, bringing him to full hardness. Then he drops to his knees and brings his lips to the other boy's hardness. Pete watches, breathless. This isn't his first time getting head, but Tweek is his one and only sex partner to date and having it done once to him doesn't exactly make him an expert. The boy before him is still gripping him with one hand, fully encircling the base of his dick with his fist. The grip is almost painfully tight. Pete wishes he would move it some, give him some friction. His mouth is barely covering the head of his cock, sucking and licking at it, drool running down his chin. He has a pointed chin, fey-like, almost angelic. Pete hates himself for comparing this boy to an angel, so conformist. The hand finally moves, down, then back up, smearing the saliva along the entire length.

Then he lets go of him, moving his hand to Pete's hip. He presses him against the tiled wall once more, silently telling him to hold still. He swallows him down with a smooth, well practiced motion. Pete watches his length, an inch at a time, disappear past those plump lips. He feels the blond's tongue pressing against the bottom of his shaft, tracing the veins and bumps of his penis. He feels the head bump against the back of his throat. Tweek tilts his head back, as if he were trying to look up at him, and he feels his cockhead slip further down into wet, hot, softness. For some reason he had imagined a throat would be ribbed and bumpy along the inside, like the roof of a mouth, but it's soft and sleek. Pete stares at the boy, at how obscene he looks with his lips stretched around his glistening cock. He's an angel alright, a fallen angel. Tweek suddenly gags and the convulsions might be the best thing he's ever felt in his life. Instinctively he grabs at Tweek's head, fingers scrabbling into his hair. The boy pulls off him with an audible pop and slaps at his hands.

"Don't touch me. Unless I explicitly tell you that you can, you aren't allowed to touch me."

"Sorry," he apologizes, raising his hands above his head like somebody has a gun pointed at him. Tweek takes him back in his mouth again. Pete scrambles to find somewhere to put his hands and settles with grabbing his own head instead, pulling at his own greasy hair. The pain of yanking at his own black locks feels good. He feels himself twitch somewhere down in the boy's throat. He knows he's going to come much too quickly. He had wanted it to last longer but already he's tensing up and Tweek is pulling back, obviously familiar with the signs of a pending orgasm. Pete doesn't have time to warn him. He releases onto Tweek's face, painting the boy's delicate features, his thin nose and full lips, his sunken cheeks, with strips of white.

He looks fucking beautiful like this, covered in his cum. Pete feels himself twitch again, The blond nuzzles against his softening penis. It's too much, he's overly sensitive, and Pete takes a step back. He zips his jeans back up, buttons then, but leaves his belt undone as he takes a seat on the closed toilet seat. His legs are shaking. Tweek stands up and wipes at his face with a scrunched up piece of toilet paper.

That was better than last time. Last time the other boy had been so distant during it all, almost as if he wasn't there in the moment. This time had been intense, almost violent. Which seems absurd since last time Tweek had initiated it and this time he had seemed uninterested at first.

He's surprised when Tweek takes a seat in his lap, throwing both legs over one of his own and looping his arms around his neck. The boy nuzzles into Pete's throat then grabs at his chin, turning his face towards him to kiss him. It's not Pete's first kiss, he'd kissed both Henrietta and Michael, but this is the first kiss that tasted like his own cum. It isn't a pleasant taste but there's something to be said about knowing somebody's lips were just splattered with your own semen.

Tweek kisses him lazily, his tongue rubbing against Pete's own, licking at the roof of his mouth. Pete bites at his lower lip and Tweek returns the motion, one of his hands going up to grab at Pete's hair as his teeth clink against the ring in his lip. It turns a bit in its hole, catching. He pulls back for a second, licking his lips so the ring can turn smoothly, and kisses the boy again, his arms tightening around him. He feels the boy's legs pressing up against his stomach.

“You're amazing,” Pete tells him as he stops to catch his breath.

“Yeah?” Tweek asks. He reaches up to play with a lock of Pete's hair, one of the long locks that make up the fringe covering his eye. “Amazing enough to take me home with you?”

“Seriously?” Pete asks, his voice going embarrassingly high. “You want to have sex at my place?”

“Well, I was more thinking about having a place to sleep for the night,” the other boy admits. “I honestly have no where else to go tonight.”

“Wait,” Pete says, “You mean you want to crash at my place? Dude, we just met.”

“Technically we've known each other since like 3rd grade,” Tweek points out. He pulls himself closer to Pete and the goth isn't stupid, he sees what the boy is trying to do.

“I don't know,” Pete mutters. “I mean, what if you rob me in my sleep?”

“You know my name,” Tweek reminds him. “You could just report me.”

“Yeah, I suppose that's true,” he admits. “Okay, yeah, you can sleep over tonight. But like, I don't have to still pay you that thirty bucks, right?”

Tweek shrugs. “I suppose not.”

“And we still get to have sex, right?”

Another shrug. “Whatever you want.”

They clean themselves up before leaving the bathroom. Tweek washes his face, Pete buckles him belt back up. Pete decides to do the gentlemanly thing and leaves a five dollar bill on the table to cover Tweek's bill before they head out to his car. The blond grabs a backpack from the booth as they leave.

The moment they're back in the Prius, Pete grabs a cigarette and lights it up. He holds the pack out to Tweek who looks at it, wrinkling his nose, but takes one of them from the pack anyway.

“I've never smoked,” he admits. He uses Pete's lighter, has trouble getting it to spark. For a newbie he does pretty good, only coughing a few times. Pete holds his cigarette in his left hand, the same hand he steers with, as his right rests on Tweek's thigh.

He keeps glancing over at him as he drives back to the trailer park. He's gorgeous and the cigarette in his hand just gives him that little extra touch. He wonders if he'd let him put eyeliner on him? Pete tries to imagine him with black hair but it's not a good image. Maybe blond isn't that bad, if it's natural, and not some platinum Christina shit.

“So, uh, I don't live in the best part of town,” he says as they start to near the trailer park's entrance. “Just so you know.”

“I lived in a moldy basement for eight years,” the boy replies flatly. “What do I care?”

True to word, Tweek doesn't bat an eye as Pete pulls in next to the rusted trailer that has been his home since he was just a baby. It's late enough his gramma might be home by now, she works at the night shift as a nurse's aid. He can usually tell by the presence of her car but she's let him take it to Denver tonight, taking the bus instead.

“Be quiet,” he instructs Tweek as he unlocks the front door. “My gramma's room is at the end of the hall.”

“Okay.”

The lights are off. He turns on the lamp near the front door and tries not to cringe at the sight of his grandmother's bra hanging off the couch.

“I think there's some cold pizza in the fridge,” he says quietly, not quite whispering but keeping his voice low. “Are you hungry? Do you want some?”

“I'm too tired to sleep,” Tweek replies. “Can we just go to bed? We can have sex in the morning but I'm just really tired.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Pete is pretty tired too. He doesn't think he'd be able to get it up again already anyway.

His own bedroom is his sanctuary but looking at it through a stranger's eyes it's embarrassing. He loves his posters, of various goth bands, of Edgar Allan Poe quotes. He loves his lava lamp and his glow in the dark skulls. But the wood paneling is ancient and the floor is moss green shag. You can't tell it's green though. When Pete turns on his overhead light the room is washed in a red glow. The lamp beside his bed is a normal bulb, good for reading and what-have-you, but he likes the red for atmosphere.

“I like the light,” Tweek comments, setting his backpack on the beanbag chair near the door. Pete closes the door behind them.

“The bed's a double,” he tells Tweek. “But, uh, it's not very big. We'll be a little cramped.”

“Better than sleeping under a bridge or something,” Tweek tells him. He sits down on Pete's bed and starts to remove his shoes. Pete sits next to him and does the same. Then he's faced with the awkward choice of whether or not to undress for bed. Tweek takes off his pants, keeping his shirt on, but Pete isn't wearing underwear. He goes for the opposite, just removing his shirt. Then he scoots back on the bed, taking the spot nearest the wall. Tweek lays down beside him, worming his way closer to him, so Pete puts his arm around him.

He feels good. He's never actually spooned somebody before. Unless you count the giant teddy bear he had as a little boy. He doesn't know where to put the arm that isn't around Tweek and ends up moving it up under his head.

“Press yourself closer to me,” the other boy whispers. “I'm cold.”

He does as instructed, their hips flushed against each other, his chest against Tweek's back. Tweek takes his hand from where it dangles awkward near his hip and moves it up, pressing it against his chest.

This boy. God, this boy. Michael isn't even in his thoughts at this moment. Was Tweek sent to him by one of his gods? One of the ones he had offered blood to? He had asked for Michael not another boy, especially not a blond Justin-wannabe, but Pete thinks he may be in love. He wants to write this boy poetry about the shape of his lips and the color of his eyes.

“You smell good,” he offers instead, and almost hits himself. What a stupid comment. Like yeah, it's true, he smells great, but he didn't have to say it like some creep. He could've said something more normal like “Hey what sort of shampoo do you use, I like the scent.” But no.  
Tweek just hums a reply, already dozing. And Pete follows suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCR might be dead but My Medical Relationship lives on!


	19. Tweek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Pete's mother miraculously disappeared from his life and was replaced by his grandmother since the last chapter! Let's not speak of it again.

His first instinct is to fake still being asleep. Sometimes, if he does a really job of faking it, of pretending that he's still fast asleep, Ghost will stop trying to have sex with him. Or, sometimes, if he keeps his eyes closed, and his body lax, and claims he's too tired to even turn over, Ghost will stop touching him. Sometimes, he'll put it off for just a few hours, just until Tweek is more awake and more capable of actively participating. Sometimes.

But the pressure around his waist now is persistent and the familiar feeling of a hard cock pressing into his left ass cheek demanding. His brain still as foggy as a morning along the coast, Tweek spreads his legs obediently, waiting. Ghost always like to get him hard before doing anything else. He likes to make sure Tweek feels good too.

“Hey,” a hoarse voice whispers into his ear. The breath smells like acrid smoke. “You awake?”

Tweek opens his eyes, blinking at the dim red glow that meets them. They ache from crying too much and the edges feel glued shut, crusty, almost sharp. He's hugging a pillow decorated in little cartoon bloody knives close to his face. It smells like smoke too.

“You sleep okay?” that voice asks again.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Tweek mumbles into the pillow. He wants to push Pete away. He's hot, his body heat making Tweek sweat, and he feels heavy, half on top of him like this. He's manged to cover Tweek's hip with his leg and he's pressing his morning wood against Tweek's ass. It's like having a wet quilt spread over him, weighing him down. He feels like he can't breathe, mentally.

“I was dreaming about you,” Pete tells him. Tweek isn't sure if he's trying to sound seductive or if he just has that hoarse morning voice so many smokers possess. “I had several dreams about you, actually.” He presses his hips harder against Tweek.

How flattering.

“I think you're pressing against my bladder,” Tweek says, pushing back against him with his shoulder. “I need to pee.”

“Oh,” the boy pulls his leg off over Tweek's hip. They're under the blanket still. Pete's jeans scratch the skin of hip. Or the zipper does, anyway. “Yeah, sure. Sorry.”

Pete sits up in the bed, pulling the blankets along with him. The air feels shockingly cold against Tweek's skin. Goosebumps begin to form almost on contact. Something about the air almost feels metallic.

He swings his legs over the goth boy's bedside. The tacky shag carpet feels surprisingly soft and squishy between his toes, as if it were new. His shoes sit next to the bed, one of them leaning against one of the other boy's boots.

“Have you seen my pants?” he asks. He thought he had left them in a pile next to his shoes. Yesterday had been so emotionally draining, he barely even remembered arriving at the trailer, let alone where his pants had ended up.

“They're on the dresser. But my gramma's gone,” Pete says. Tweek's not looking at him but he recognizes the sound of a Zippo being opened. Followed by the sound of it sparking. “She does a quilting club thing at the library on Thursday mornings so you should be good in your underwear. It's the door across the hallway.”

Tweek thanks him and slips out the door. The hallway is bright and the linoleum feels cold on his feet in comparison to the carpet. The door scrapes open when he pulls. It's light and cheaply made. Plywood or something like that.

The bathroom is tiny with more cheap plywood and an 80's pastel flower wallpaper. There's moisture on the mirror and it feels like he's in a muggy rain forest. Somebody showered here recently. The toilet has a pink knitted seat cover that perfectly matches the pink flowers on the wallpaper. He's careful to not splatter on it when he pees, shutting the toilet back up safely once finished.

He stares at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands. The condensation makes him look paler than he is and a few droplets are starting to run on the glass, making it appear as if mirror-him were crying. He watches a droplet of water trail down mirror-Tweek's chin. His eyes still look pink. The skin on his face feels tender from the salt of his tears. A shower probably would do him some good.

He splashes some water on his face instead and rubs the crust from his eyes. They scratch his eyelids, solidified eye mucus. There's two toothbrushes in a duck-shaped toothbrush holder and a tube of Crest toothpaste to the side. He squeezes some of the toothpaste onto his right index finger and scrubs the best he could with his teeth. He left his toothbrush at his mother's house. Cupping a handful of water, he brings it to his mouth and swirls the toothpaste around, trying to hit all corners of his mouth. When he spits he feels somewhat refreshed.

His eyes still look pink though. He splashes water onto his face again then uses a small pink hand towel to pat himself dry. Mirror-Tweek is still crying.

“Don't be a pussy,” he whispers to Mirror-Tweek. “We're out of the snow. We're free from the basement. We have a bed to sleep in. We'll be okay.”

'That boy only wants to have sex with you,' Mirror-Tweek says in his mind.

“So what?” he whispers back. “He's nice to us. Who cares if we don't want to have sex with him? We'll go back into that bedroom and fuck his brains out and then get a free breakfast for our troubles. Do what you need to do.”

Mirror-Tweek can't contradict him.

The room seems black at first, when Tweek walks back in and shuts the door behind himself. He hadn't noticed last night because of the lateness of the hour but the windows are covered with something. There's a blood red curtain covering them but it's too dark just to be the curtain. There's probably something like poster board or cardboard blocking the windows from behind the curtain. Maybe the boy painted his windows black. Compared to the bright morning light flooding the hallway the bedroom seems devoid of light.

That makes the fact that he had caught a glimpse of Pete apparently reading in the couple seconds before closing the door pretty amazing. Tweek blinks in the dimness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. It's lit like a darkroom in here. Craig brought him into the school's darkroom once, when they were children. He'd shown an interest in photography at a young age and appreciated the aesthetic choice of film and chemicals over bytes. He'd hung dripping photos of guinea pigs and stray dogs up on a thin line and then he'd kissed him in the middle of that room, the smell of musk and chemicals tickling Tweek's nose. It had been a sweet, chase, maybe slightly more meaningful than normal, childish kiss.

Pete is still in bed and the book in his lap is large and hard-covered. He's holding a half-smoked cigarette in his hand and he takes a drag of it as Tweek feels his way cautiously back to the bed.

“Do you read poetry?” Pete asks him. His voice doesn't sound as hoarse anymore.

“Not really,” Tweek says, really meaning, not at all. He slips back beneath the blankets. They're still warm and feel good against his cold, clammy feet. Pete holds his cigarette out towards him and Tweek takes it. The butt is damp from the other boy's saliva. The smokes tastes of mint. Aren't goths supposed to smoke clove cigarettes, not menthol?

He hands the cigarette back to Pete, allowing the smoke to escape from his mouth. Not blowing it, but letting it seep out like a leak in an aquarium. He's not sure if he likes smoking. The cigarette yesterday had created a pain between his shoulder blades.

Pete leans over and kisses him. Tweek allows it. Kissing Pete tastes like kissing an ashtray and his bangs brush against Tweek's eyelid in an annoying way reminiscent of a fly that he once woke to crawling across his nose. But he's a gentle kisser, his lips soft despite the lip ring. He doesn't feel any arousal towards him but it's not the worst thing in the world to be kissed by this boy.

Pete leans over him and snubs his cigarette out on a plate sitting on the stand beside his bed. It's blue and white and covered with other cigarette butts, all of them shorter than the one he just put out. Tweek wonders if he'll re-light it later and continue smoking it. He doesn't seem rich, he can't have the money to waste on unfinished tobacco products. Pete leans slightly farther, past the makeshift ashtray, his ribs pressing against Tweek's leg, and turns on the lamp behind the plate. It's harsh, white, one of those energy efficient spiraled kind of bulbs that lack all the warmth and subtlety of the old-fashioned frosted type. Tweek blinks uncomfortably.

“Do you, um,” Pete looks towards Tweek, his eyes like that of a fawn caught in front of a car's headlights. He turns to look at the book in his lap. His face is flushed, especially visible under the pallidness of his flesh. He doesn't seem to know what he wants to say so he starts reading instead. “And on the spectral mountain's crown, the wearied light is dying down, and earth, and stars, and sea, and sky, are redolent of sleep, as I am redolent of thee and thine, enthralling love, my Adeline. But list, O list,- so soft and low, thy lover's voice tonight shall flow, that, scarce-”

Tweek kisses him this time, to stop him from speaking and to stop him from trembling. He's as nervous as a chihuahua in a handbag. Pete seems to deflate, the tenseness falling from his shoulders. Tweek reaches down and presses his hand to the front of the boy's jeans. He's so hard it must be painful.

“Why are you wearing these?” he asks, unbuttoning the button on the jeans. At least he's removed his belt.

“I usually sleep nude,” Pete confesses, leaning his head on Tweek's shoulder. His hair brushes Tweek's chin. “But that felt weird with you here.”

Tweek helps him out of his jeans, pulling them down over Pete's legs as he tilts his hips up off the bed. They're skinny jeans and they fit him like a second skin. Somehow despite that he looks smaller without clothes. And he's pale, almost sickly so. His chest is hairless and concave, Tweek can see the outline of his ribs. He's so much smaller than anybody else he's ever been with. The blackness of his pubic hair contrast the whiteness of his thighs.

Pete pulls himself partly up, resting on his elbows, and looks at Tweek expectantly. Tweek considers leaving his shirt on, he doesn't need to be naked for this, but he only has a couple in his bag and he doesn't want to stain this one. He unbuttons the piece of clothing without a hint of urgency or sensuality in his actions.

Pete holds a hand out to him, inviting him, so Tweek goes to him, covering his body with his own. He's all angles, sharp hip bones and blunt knees. He's no thinner than Tweek, not really, but he's lankier, larger boned. His thinness doesn't seem natural for him. He touches Tweek's hips like he doesn't know what to do with them, just resting his hands on the slight swell below his waist. Tweek kisses him lazily, waiting for him to do something besides press his hips up against his own stomach. He's leaking against the blond's belly, hot and tight with need.

“You need to get me ready,” he tells the younger boy, finally pulling back from the kiss. “Where's the lube?”

“Lube?” Pete asks, already arching up for more kisses. Tweek puts his hand on his chest, holding him down. Tweek is unsure if he's dazed by his lust or just stupid.

“Yeah, lube. So we can have sex? You wanted to have sex, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Pete nods, collapsing back flat onto the bed. “But I don't have any lube.”

Tweek sits back on the boy's hips and rubs at his right eye with his middle finger, resisting the urge to insult the kid. Did he think he'd be able to just stick it in dry?

“Is this your first time with a boy?” he asks finally.

“It's my first time with anybody.”

“Of course it is,” Tweek sighs from his position on top of the boy. “When two guys are together they need lube, or I guess any time you stick something inside a person's asshole. Otherwise you'll chafe and tear and probably bleed.”

“Do I need to go to the store?” Pete asks, his voice dropping in disappointment. His erection is still persistent, cushioned in the space between Tweek's ass crack.

“Yes. But not right now,” Tweek tells him, wiggling forward a bit. “We can use something else for now, but lube is better. Do you have lotion?”

“There's some sunblock in my drawer,” Pete offers, looking at the bedside stand. “I put it on every day.”

Of course he does. No wonder the boy looks like he's never seen the light of day.

“Okay,” Tweek agrees, thinking about how this will work. “It might sting a bit but we can deal. But buy some real lube already, okay?”

“Okay.”

The lotion isn't as slippery as real lube and he ends up using more than he would normally. Tweek squirts a generous portion of the stuff into the boy's palm and tells him to spread it over his index and middle fingers. Then he takes the confused boy's hand and guides it behind him.

“Wait!” Pete panics. “You want me to put my fingers up there?”

“Do you want me to do it myself?” Tweek offers, annoyed. “I need to be stretched or it'll hurt.”

“Oh,” Pete looks worried, like he hadn't realized having something up your ass might hurt. “No, no, let me do it. Let me know if I hurt you.”

He takes his time doing it, starting with only the one finger, which Tweek doesn't have the heart to tell him he does not need to bother with. He knows his own limit and he has no trouble starting with two fingers. Instead, Tweek leans forwards, holding himself over Pete's prone body, and breathes against the boy's ear as he experiments with him. Pete keeps swallowing, as if his mouth were dry, which it very might well be with how heavily he's breathing.

When he's ready Tweek pulls himself up, off of the boy's fingers, and rolls them over. Pete looks startled, as if wondering how he magically ended up on top.

“How do I? I mean, um, it's not in the front.”

“Just push my legs up,” Tweek says. He wonders if this boy has ever watched porn in his life. “Would doggy be easier for you?”

“No, I want to do it like this,” Pete insists. “So I can kiss you. I just didn't know two men could do it face to face.”

He follows Tweek's instructions, resting the blond's calves over his shoulders. Tweek tenses when he feels him against him, poking at his thigh as he attempts to find his hole.

“Condom,” he reminds him.

“Shit! I forgot.” He doesn't have lube but there's a half-empty box of condoms in the bedside table. “I masturbate in them sometimes,” he confesses.

From start to finish the fucking takes maybe three minutes, and a good minute and a half of that is Pete trying to not cum as he slides in bit by bit. His thrusts are amateurish, he lacks any rhythm. Tweek tries to push back against him, help him along, but it's like trying to clap your hands along with somebody who keeps changing the tune of the song.

Pete presses his forehead against Tweek's shoulder as he comes, his body so stiff he's shaking with tension. Afterwards he reaches for Tweek's half-erect cock. Tweek tells him it's okay and turns onto his side.

Pete's a cuddler. Now that Tweek can relax and not worry about sex he doesn't mind this fact. Being held feels nice when you aren't waiting for a dick to pop up between you two. The boy removes the condom, ties it shut, and throws it onto the floor atop his jeans. Then he spoons against Tweek possessively. He's still sticky and smells like a Disneyland tourist on a hot summer day between the sweat and lotion. Tweek's inside sting slightly from the chemicals in the sunblock and he wonders if Pete's piss slit might be irritated too.

“You're so perfect,” Pete sighs into Tweek's hair. “I wish I could just stay in this room with you forever.”

“We'd need to eat, eventually,” Tweek says elusively. “Didn't you say something about pizza last night?”

“Yeah,” Pete replies. “In a minute. I'll grab it from the fridge but just let my enjoy the afterglow for awhile.”

Tweek can't enjoy the afterglow. He's thinking of the sting of his sphincter from the lotion. He's thinking about Ghost's upcoming trial. Is it only two weeks away already? It's already Thursday and it only starts Monday after next. He's thinking about Craig. About Craig slamming him against the side of his car. About how he slammed his fist down on the steering wheel as he yelled at him. About how he flipped him the middle finger as he drove away. He's thinking of his mother calling him disgusting. Of Garrison calling him precious. He's thinking about how little cash he has. He's thinking about Chile's voice and smell in the room and that same voice and smell in the hospital. He's thinking about Hansel and Gretel, worrying if his mother checked their food or water. He thinking about where he's going to go next.

Pete reaches for his pack of cigarettes, they're lying behind him on the bed, and lights one up.

“You want one?”

“Uh uh,” he denies the offer..

Pete blows smoke into his ear. It's not a great smell. Tweek coughs a little.

They cuddle until Pete finishes his cigarette. Then he throws the butt onto the plate and sits up, stretching his arms out over his head. The movement makes him look skinnier. Tweek wonders if you could feel his spine if you pressed down on his stomach hard enough.

“Do you want your pizza cold or microwaved?”

“Cold.”

“Okay.” Pete steps out of bed and pulls his jeans back on over his legs. “You can come out, if you want? I mean, my gramma might be back soon but we can say you just got here.”

“Maybe in a bit,” Tweek says quietly. “I don't feel like meeting any grandmothers right now.”

“Right. Sure. Be right back.”

Pete slips out the door, barely cracking it open. Tweek waits until he hears him walking down the hallway, the walls of the trailer are so thin, then he angles his hand back to feel his asshole. He's still sleek and he slips his thumb in easily. The little bit of pressure stings. He massages himself gently. Sunblock isn't the same as normal lotion. Ghost almost always used real lubricant but there were a couple times when he had been desperate and hadn't realized he had been out. But then he always used Cetaphil, the gentle, fragrance-free stuff that he liked Tweek to use on his entire body to keep himself soft and smooth for Ghost's touch..

His hands smell like the beach. He wants to wash them but he doesn't want to leave the room.

Pete returns with two paper plates and two cans of generic cola. He hands Tweek one plate and he sits up to eat. This is the point when Craig would normally turn on the laptop and they'd watch something but Pete only takes small, occasional bites, filling the time in between with words.

“You can stay here as long as you want,” he tells Tweek. “But we'll have to be quiet when my gramma's around. She takes out her hearing aid at night so don't worry about that.”  
“Is it just you and your grandmother?”

“Uh huh,” Pete confirms. He takes a bite of the pizza. It's pepperoni, crumbled sausage, jalapenos, and pineapple. Tweek's never had pineapple on a pizza. It's sort of weird. “She probably won't like, throw a fit, if she finds you. But probably better if we just keep it from her for now.”

“Where's your parents?”

Pete swallows and makes an annoyed face. “Mother ran away while I was still in the incubator. Dad died when I was three. Aneurysm.”

“Incubator?”

“Yeah,” Pete nods. “I was in the ICU for the first three weeks of my life.”

“What was wrong with you?”

“Born over a monthly early,” Pete says, taking a sip from his soda. “Only weighed three pounds, five ounces. My mother was a druggie. My gramma still hates her. She says I knew that inside her wasn't a good place so I made a run for it as soon as I could.”

“I'm sorry,” Tweek tells him.

“Life is pain,” Pete responds vaguely. “She sends me a postcard for Christmas, sometimes. She was somewhere in Italy two years ago.”

“I've never been to Italy.”

“Me neither.” Pete finishes his pizza and reaches for his cigarettes, then stops himself. “Do you know it smells like sex in here? I didn't notice until I came back in.”

“Smells like a beach to me,” Tweek replies. “But makes sense.”

“I'm going to light some incense.”

His incense holder is a little metal skull. The mouth opens and he sets one of those little triangular incense in the mouth. When he closes the mouth again smoke starts to drift out of its eyes. It smells nice. Not like cigarette smoke. It smells like a field of flowers, smoldering at the end of a forest fire. After awhile it makes Tweek feel heady.

“What about you?” Pete asks, sitting back across from him. Tweek's still on his second slice of pizza. “Your mom threw you out you said? What about your dad?”

“My dad moved to San Diego with some woman,” Tweek says. “He has two more kids now. He told me to never try to contact him again.”

“Harsh.”

“My other daddy is going to prison,” he adds after a moment.

“Other daddy?” Pete asks. “Step-dad?”

“Sort of,” Tweek says. “The one who took me. He always made me call him daddy. I did. I never forgot my real dad but sometimes I'd start doubting he really existed. Like maybe my head was making up this shit because I wanted him to not be my real dad, you know?”

“Was it that bad?”

Tweek pops the last of his pizza into his mouth and chews, thoughtful. Was Ghost that bad? He took him away from his family. Imprisoned him in a room smaller than this trailer for nearly a decade. Raped him almost daily. He also brushed his hair and told him he loved him and read to him and played with his Legos with him.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says.

“Did he beat you?”

“No. He made me have sex with him. A lot. Like thousands of times.”

“That's hardcore,” Pete tells him. “You should like, write a book about it. Then publish it. People love to read that kind of shit. You could make a ton.”

Money sounds nice, but Tweek isn't sure if he really wants people knowing about how he felt when he awoke in that room or the first time cum was leaking out of his asshole.

Tweek reaches for his soda. The blanket wrapped around his body slips down in the back, his behind exposed to the cooler bedroom air. It's feeling warmer in the room now but it's not as nice as beneath the covers. He wonders if Pete turned the heater up when he went to get the pizza.

Pete touches his back and Tweek winces. He doesn't want to have sex again. He's still sore and he's just really not into it.

“I noticed this earlier,” the goth says, his palm flat against his back, about where his ribs end. “What is it?”

“What is-oh that.” Tweek never forgets about that exactly, but it's not something he's faced with that often. It's not an easy part of himself to see and he tries not to think about it. “That's my mark.”

“It looks like a tattoo.”

“It is,” he agrees. “I got it when I was ten.”

“Did you design it?”  
“It's my mark,” he says again. “To show I belong to Ghost. He had me marked after I stopped begging to go home.” He pulls the blanket back up around his shoulders, hiding the tattoo. He doesn't want Pete looking at it anymore. He doesn't want to think about it. About how Ghost had held him in his lap, gripping his hair in his fist, as Tweek cried through the ordeal. He doesn't want to think about sore it had been for days after. He doesn't want to think about his ten-year-old self trying to see it in the reflective grayness of the unplugged television because he didn't have a mirror. He's still not exactly sure what it is, it seems abstract.

The grandmother appears for only a few hours. Pete goes out to visit the old woman for awhile while Tweek silently reads one of his books. Most of his books are full of poetry but he finds a comic about a woman growing up in Iran. He reads that one, taking time to look at the pictures. He only gets a third of the way through it before his eyelids become heavy and he drifts off for awhile.

When he awakens he finds Pete sitting on the beanbag chair on the floor. He's pulled it into the middle of the room and there's a large pad of paper in his lap. His eyes are on the paper and he doesn't see Tweek is awake. Tweek glances at the paper and is surprised to see his own sleeping face reflected there. His face looks relaxed in sleep, his lips just slightly parted. Pete is shading in the area beneath his eyelashes.

Tweek sits up, catching his attention. He quickly closes the sketchpad.

“It's nearly three,” he says. “She's gone to work. She works the night shift at the hospital because it's easier than the day for a nurse. Do you want to shower or anything?”

“Yeah, that'd be nice.”

He makes it quick, being thorough when scrapping the tacky remnants of sunblock out of his rectum. Pete leaves a fluffy white towel on the sink and it engulfs his entire body.

He hears music when he leaves the bathroom and follows it into the living room. The music is coming from a spherical object on the kitchen counter. It must be a speaker?

“Alexa,” Pete says loudly when he catches sight of Tweek. “Volume level three.”

The music dulls. Tweek feels like he's on that Kubrick movie with the red bulb and feels thankful to be out of the bedroom. Pete sets the book aside he was reading.

“It's still pretty earlier. Anywhere you want to go?”

“Not particularly.”

“Netflix?” Tweek shakes his head no.  
“Do you have any video games?”

“I have a Super Nintendo. Do you want me to hook it up?”

A what? Tweek just looks at him. Pete gets on his knees and digs through the cabinet underneath the small-screened, old-school television. He pulls out something gray and boxy and Tweek watches him fiddle with some wires behind the television. Then he sits back with an odd-looking controller in his hand. The screen shows Mario, Nintendo's mascot, running across the screen before jumping onto the back of Yoshi. Tweek knows both the characters but they look old school. The words Super Mario World hang in the sky.

“Do you want to be Mario or Luigi?”

Tweek arches an eyebrow at him.

“It, it was my dad's,” he explains, blushing. “Gramma could never afford the newer system, we always played at Michael's. Here, you can be Luigi.”

He hands Tweek one of the controllers. It feels light in his hands. And oddly small, more like a toy that a video game console.

Who would know the game is absolutely addicting? They're still playing when his grandmother arrives home in her scrubs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't plan on doing another Pete chapter but let me know if it's something you guys really want.


	20. Craig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this story is getting too long. I have a few more plot ideas I wanted to explore but like, maybe I should cut it short? Like this length feels unnecessary.

It's been two days since Craig has seen Tweek and it feels more like two weeks. He's exhausted, physically and emotionally, and his stomach is in knots. Not that it matters anyway, Craig forgot to pack his lunch today and he wouldn't want to touch the school food even if he were starving. Instead, he's opted for just buying a chocolate milk from the vending machine located outside the cafeteria's doors and try to survive his way through lunch by doing some homework.

The chocolate milk part is going fine. The homework part, less so.

It's Friday and Craig hasn't had a decent sleep since he woke up Wednesday morning. If he hasn't been out there searching for Tweek or calling people who might have seen him, then he's been lying in bed just staring at the ceiling, guilt eating through him. Except when he stops feeling guilty long enough to feel righteous anger at being betrayed by the boy he thought was the love of his life. Which then gives him another reason to feel guilty, wasting energy on anger when he instead should be worrying about where Tweek is and if he's okay.

He wishes the blond would pick up his phone. That he would return one of his calls or text him. At least let him know he's alive. He's called Butters in hopes that Tweek might have contacted him but the blond had told him he hadn't, and the sincere worry in his voice was enough to convince Craig this was true. He has talked to Mr. Garrison at one point, stopping by the elementary school, and the man had seemed utterly uninterested in the entire ordeal. He'd even stopped by that bathhouse and asked around. The man at the front who handed out towels recognized the picture of Tweek he'd shown him on his phone but said he hadn't been by “in like a week.”

There was no way Mr. Stotch could have him at his house, right? Not with Mrs. Stotch hanging around. Craig has run out of places to look at this point, it's obvious that Tweek doesn't want to be found. That makes it worse. If he could be out there looking for him he could at least feel like he was doing something but right now all he can do is wait and hope Tweek contacts him.

“Why don't you get your own table?” a voice asks, forcing Craig to look up from his science book. It's one of the goth kids from that group of them that always sits at the end of his new table. The overweight girl with the cigarette holder that she always seem to insist on holding from the looks of it, whether she was smoking or not.

“You guys don't need twelve seats to yourself,” Craig informs her.

“Go back to sitting with your jock friends,” the one with the red-streaked hair tells him. “This is our table. This has always been our table.”

The boy's tone of voice grates on Craig's nerves and he flips him off.

“I'm just studying,” he informs them. “So kindly fuck off.”

He's not really getting any reading done though. He stares at the book, eyes unfocused. He's read the same page at least five times.

“Glare at that book any harder and you'll shoot lasers out your eyes,” a familiar voice informs him. Craig feels the table vibrate as a backpack is thrown on top of it. “He still missing?”

“What do you want?” Craig replies. “Shouldn't you be sitting with your boyfriend?”

Craig glances over towards his old table by the window, wishing he could join them. Join Clyde. He misses him too, though not nearly as much as Tweek. Great, another thing to feel guilty over. Clyde and Stan are talking, Clyde brandishing his new eyepatch proudly. It's pretty ridiculous. Craig isn't sure if people still wear eyepatches normally but he's pretty sure Clyde is only wearing his for attention. Or because he thinks it makes him look like a pirate. It's not like he is all scarred up or anything. His eye doesn't work but it's still there, it still looks normal – sort of. Like it's a bit oddly colored, sort of foggy, and it seems to wander some, but it's not just a big gaping bloody hole.

Clyde's one working eye lands on him for a moment and Craig turns his own eyes back to Kyle, trying to pretend he wasn't looking at him.

“Clyde wants to forgive you, you know,” the redhead says. He unzips his backpack and pulls out his lunchbox. It has the Periodic Table of Elements on the front and it's basically the dorkiest thing Craig has ever seen. He's missed seeing it at lunch every day. “He keeps waiting for you to come apologize to him.”

“I already apologized to him,” Craig responds. “And did he tell you that specifically? That he wants to forgive me?”

“No,” Kyle confesses. He removes an apple from his lunchbox and sets it in front of Craig. The taller boy takes it with a mumbled thanks. “But he's always whining about how you would've laughed at one of his dumb jokes or about how you always let him have you desserts.”

“That just means he misses how we used to be,” Craig responds. He picks at the sticker on the apple. His nails are getting long, he needs to cut them. “I miss when my mom used to set me on her lap and read to me, it doesn't mean I really want to go back to that.”

“He stares at you a lot when you're not looking,” Kyle adds, now removing a sandwich from his lunchbox. Turkey, probably. His mother doesn't encourage him to eat a lot of red meat. He sets the sandwich down on the table. “Like, longingly. Like he used to look at your desserts.”

“He told me Tweek should've killed himself,” Craig reminds the boy. He's sure he's told him this before. “Like he doesn't deserve to live because of what some perverted asshole did to him.”

“Clyde was just angry,” Kyle says. “I think if you reach out to him he'll be receptive.”

“I kind of have a lot of other stuff on my plate right now,” he says.

“Don't wait too long,” Kyle advises. He takes a bite of his sandwich and Craig grimaces as the boy talks with his mouth full. “If you put it off too long it'll just become more awkward.”

Craig expects Kyle to go back to their normal table one he finishes delivering his message but he sits with Craig the entire lunch period, even checking his blood sugar in front of him, despite knowing how uncomfortable it makes Craig to see him do it. He offers Craig some carrot sticks after he finishes the apple but the apple has already made him feel nauseous.

“Did Tweek really cheat on you?” he asks after awhile. Craig has a feeling he was building up to this subject, steeling himself. Like maybe the Clyde subject had just been an opening before he could get into the meat of the subject.

“Yeah,” he sigh. His eyes are starting to sting with tears already. He doesn't like to think of it. He hasn't told his family that Tweek was cheating on him so he hasn't been able to discuss this with anybody yet. The emotions have been eating at him. Maybe he can confide to Kyle. Kyle has a high moral sense, he can't see him teasing him or spreading rumors over something like this. “He's been cheating with a lot of guys. Every time I close my eyes I just imagine him with them. Kissing them. Writhing under them. It's driving me insane.”

“It's just sex,” Kyle consoles, reaching over to touch Craig's wrist with his fingertips. “The sex doesn't mean anything. He loves you.”

“But what if he doesn't?” Craig asks, humiliated by the tears he's quickly wiping away with the back of his hand. “He told me he isn't sure if he does. What if being with these other men has opened him up to the possibilities of dating other men? Just because we dated when we were nine doesn't mean he's obligated to have any feelings for me now. What if he's fallen in love with one of those men?”

“He doesn't know what he's feeling,” Kyle assures him. “He's confused. I bet he has a lot of confusing feelings right now but I can tell from when I've seen you two together he obviously loves you.”

“But those men...”

“It's just sex,” the younger boy repeats, speaking clearly and loudly. “Think about it. When we had sex did it make you love Tweek any less?”

“Of course not.”

“And obviously I only slept with you because you sort of looked like Stan.” Kyle glances back at Stan. They have ESP or something because Stan glances over at the exact same time and their eyes meet. Stan grins at Kyle and sticks the tip of his tongue out at him.

“Thanks,” Craig says sarcastically, “Glad to know I'm just Beta Stan.”

“Oh, like you didn't know that,” Kyle turns back to him, rolling his eyes. “The point is, it was the first time for both of us, and did we suddenly fall head over heels for each other? No. I stopped talking to you the moment Stan showed a hint of jealousy and you told me I had a big ass and recommended I cut back on the latkes.”

Craig snorted, remember that. Kyle didn't have a big ass, not really, but it was rounder than you'd think for a boy his size. You can see his mother's genes creeping into him. Stan better be into chubby men because he doesn't see Kyle staying a skinny nerd for too much longer.

“Did he say why?” Kyle asks, moving on. “I mean, why would he do that, you know? Was he complaining about the sex?”

“We haven't had sex,” Craig breathes through his nose. He doesn't want to tell him that. It's personal. More personal than crying in front of him, probably. “I didn't think he was ready so I kept telling him not yet. Then he accused me of not wanting him.”

“Are you afraid to have sex with him, maybe?” Kyle asks, tugging at one of his curls. He looks back at Stan again, his face flushing. He doesn't know what they're doing but Craig can sense some weird invisible communication going on between them. “Like, that he'll be better at it? Or that you'll think he won't be impressed with you?”

“Maybe a bit,” he responds. He feels jealous that those two can be flirting across the cafeteria when he doesn't even know where Tweek is. “But mostly, I guess I'm afraid of scaring him? Of making him hate me. I don't want him to think I'm just trying to use him for sex. He lived with a man for almost ten years who only wanted sex from him. What if we did it and then he regretted it later, accused me of taking advantage of him?”

Kyle seems to sense Craig's annoyance. He turns his attention back to him fully.

“And you're not at all disturbed by the fact he was used for sex for so long by another man?”

“I think everybody should be disturbed by the fact.” Craig makes a face. Of course he doesn't like to think about what Tweek has been through. But he tries to make himself think about it, sometimes. It isn't fair to just ignore what Tweek has been through. It isn't fair to pretend it didn't happen and let Tweek deal with it alone.

“I guess I mean disgusted, not disturbed. Like do you feel like Tweek is dirty or used?”

“No!” Craig cries out. A couple of the goth kids look at him, one of them muttering something unpleasant. “I love Tweek. Nothing he does can disgust me. He could take a shit on my face and I'd still want him.”

“Well,” Kyle sighs, taking a sip from his milk, “It sounds to me like he doesn't think you wanted him. I'm not an expert on this situation or anything but he just lost the only person in the world who showed some form of affection towards him for half his life. I think maybe he was looking for somebody to fill that void?”

Craig shrugs, thinking about it. Trying to figure out how he'd react in that sort of situation. He hasn't ever had to rely on only one person in his life for emotional support. Would he have sought a replacement if he had lost his parents?

“I'm not saying that's a healthy reaction,” Kyle adds, shurgging. “I'm just saying, maybe that's what's going on there.”

Kyle and Stan sneak off together with ten minutes still left on the lunch period. Craig re-reads the same page for a sixth time. The bell rings, indicating the ending of the longest lunch period in history.

He checks for messages or calls on the way to gym class but of course he hasn't received any. It's been nearly three hours since he last called Tweek. Might as well try again.

It goes to voicemail, as usual. He waits for the robotic message to end and the phone to beep.

“Hey, it's me again,” he speaks into his phone, trying to block the noise of the guys pushing each other around inside the changing room with his hand. “I know I've called like thirty times but I don't know if you've even listened to any of my messages. So I just want to say I'm sorry and I miss you and I love you. I know what you did wasn't about sex and we can figure this out together. And if you really think my dick will help you then it's all yours. I love you more than anything. I always have. Please give me a call back.”

He manages to avoid calling Tweek again until the afternoon when the final bell rings. Then he waits impatiently for his phone to turn on as he walks through the parking lot to his car, calling as soon as he is safely locked inside away from the noise of other kids laughing and screaming and discussing their Friday night plans around him. It goes to voicemail. He hangs up before the message finishes and scrolls through his contacts list until he finds Mrs. Tweak's number. She picks up on the second ring.

“Hello Craig, what do you want?” She doesn't sound angry necessarily, but she doesn't exactly sound happy to hear back from him either.

“Um, hey. I was just wondering if Tweek has stopped by?” Craig asks, keeping his voice as casual as he can. He doesn't want her to know he's lost her son.

“No, he's not responding to my calls,” she says, her voice annoyed. “If you hear from him tell him to come get his stuff before I drop it off at the Salvation Army.”

He hasn't even been by to pick up his stuff? Craig wonders how many pairs of clothes he managed to fit in one backpack.

“I'll come get it,” he volunteers. “I can be there in a couple minutes.”

“I'm at work already but go ahead, I just want it gone.”

Craig's thankful he knows where Mrs. Tweak hides the spare key under the turtle statue by the front door. Not that it matters. When he arrives at the house there's a pile of cardboard boxes in the front yard, the bottoms dark with wetness where they're piled directly on top of the snow. The pile is pathetically small for all the belongings of an eighteen-year-old boy. Without the furniture, without the bed and dresser and bedside stand, Tweek's bedroom would have been pretty empty. The boxes are lightly dusted with snow, which means they must've been out here since at least eleven. Craig remembers looking outside during math and seeing it had been lightly snowing.

There is one possession that is not packed away in a box. It sits at the very top, exposed to the wind and cold, all metal and plastic and flaky wood. An undignified gasp escapes Craig's throat as he runs to this possession.

“Poor babies,” he coos, unlatching the door to the cage. Hansel and Gretel are huddled together in their little green plastic shelter. Craig moves it and picks them both up in one hand. Their fur feels chilly but the bodies underneath are still warm. He slides them into the inside pocked of his jacket, against the warmth of his chest, and feels them squirming against him. He zips the pocket closed, making sure they don't escape, then he's careful to carry the rest of the boxes arms length from his body to his car.

His mother is vacuuming the living room when he arrives home, carrying the hamster cage out in front of him. She turns off the machine and turns her head to one side, looking behind Craig. Waiting for somebody to follow him inside. He shuts the door with his hip.

“Is he outside?”

Craig shakes his head.

“Still haven't found him,” he confesses. “His mother was threatening to throw away his things so I went and picked them up.”

“Maybe it's time we call the cops,” she suggests. “Report him as a missing person? It's been nearly forty-eight hours.”

“He's not missing,” Craig says miserably. “He just doesn't want to be found.”

He sets up the hamsters next to Stripe in the corner of the room. They squeak at each other and it'd be the cutest thing Craig has ever seen if he wasn't so downtrodden. Hopefully Mrs. Tweak packed up their condo Craig had given Tweak for Christmas, not that he has room for it in his bedroom. He feeds them all a few of Stripe's yogurt treats and takes turns petting all three of them for awhile, finding some comfort in lying on the floor and just pretending the world isn't turning to shit around him. He leaves his phone on the floor next to him, frequently checking for messages. He should probably go finish unpacking the car but whatever Tweek has packed away can wait. He's happy to see Hansel and Gretel seem lively and hopes they don't catch anything from their unpleasant winter playtime.

The knock on his door gets his heart beating excitedly. His family never knocks without yelling something at him. But it's not Tweek who steps through a couple seconds later.

Not that he's not happy to see who it is.

“Clyde,” he says, stunned. He scrambles to get to his feet but Clyde waves at him to stay on the floor. He sits down next to him, crossing his legs beneath him. “It's good to see you, man.”

“I wasn't sure if I should come,” the brunette says. “But, well,” he rubs at the back of his neck. “Kyle told me about what happened with Tweek and, I mean, I didn't mean it, you know? I don't want him to die.”

“Yeah, I know,” Craig claps Clyde on the knee. “We were both angry, it's okay.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Clyde asks. “I can call around a few places?”

“I've looked everywhere,” Craig says. “But thanks, that means a lot. I don't think we can do much besides wait right now.”

Clyde makes a humming noise. It's enough. They watch the rodents running around and Clyde reaches for Stripe without asking, opening the cage and removing the excited guinea pig. Stripe knows Clyde well, loves him really, and is happy to be allowed to run around Clyde's lap. Clyde feeds him another yogurt treat. Craig doesn't have the heart to tell him he's already had too many. Hopefully Clyde doesn't get a lap full of guinea pig vomit.

“When'd you get the hamsters?”

“They're Tweek's,” he tells him. “His mother threw them outside.”

“What a bitch. Are they friendly?” Clyde isn't quite the animal love Craig is but he couldn't see him throwing a couple of them out into the snow either.

“Yeah, you want to hold one?”

“Do you think Tweek would mind?” Clyde looks nervously at the animals scurrying around the cage, kicking up wood shavings.  
“No, I don't think he'd mind.”

Clyde is more hesitant about reaching for an unknown animal. Craig fishes out Gretel for him and sets the hamster in Clyde's open palms. He takes Stripe into his own lap.

“He's super fluffy. And super tiny. I can barely feel him in my hands.”

“It's a she.”

Clyde stays for dinner. Craig's mom has cooked lasagna. She loves when Clyde stays for dinner because he eats a lot and always compliments her food. He eats twice as much lasagna as Craig and polishes off half a loaf of garlic bread. Craig has already told them about what happened between Tweek and Clyde but his father stares at the eyepatch anyway. He catches his mother elbowing him when Clyde turns to talk to Tricia.

After dinner, Clyde helps Craig carry in Tweek's things. His size makes the job about ten times easier than if he had done it on his own. Craig suspects Clyde takes steroids, though he's never been stupid enough to ask him about it. One of the boxes that Craig had had trouble just getting into the car earlier Clyde picks up with just one arm, using the other to shut the car door against behind him.

They pry open the boxes, just to make sure nothing needs to be put in the fridge or something weird like that. The entire hamster condo is in pieces in one box. Another box smells of Tweek and it's full of his clothes, some clean, some dirty. The heavy box is full of those text books Craig had brought Tweek months ago, their covers still shiny and new looking. He knows Tweek has been reading them though, he's seen him with his own eyes. He just takes good care of his things. On top of the textbooks is a teddy bear. Craig heart hurts. Tweek had left the teddy bear he had given him behind. It wasn't like he really needed it but it feels foreboding. He takes it out and sets it on his bed.

They play video games up in his room for a few hours once the boxes are sealed back up and Clyde offers to spend the night if he needs him. They haven't done that in at least three years, when Clyde started to outgrow his old sleeping bag. They were too old to be sharing a bed. Stan and Kyle had continued to share a bed during their sleepovers all the way through high school and look where that got them.

“It is Friday,” he tells him. “Not like I'm busy in the morning or anything.”

“I'll be okay,” Craig tells him. He doesn't want to force him to sleep on the floor. And he wants to be alone for awhile. “Do you want to meet for lunch tomorrow? Invite Token to come along.”

“Okay,” Clyde agrees. Craig opens the door for him, feeling the chilly winter wind hit him like the blast of a car driving by. The snow stings his eyes. The wind has changed direction since this afternoon. Clyde's truck is parked out front, not that he couldn't walk home easily enough. He must've driven over from detention or McDonald's or something.

“I'm here if you need me,” Clyde says and then surprises Craig by hugging him. It's brief but tight. Clyde's giganticness engulfs Craig, makes him feel like a kid for a moment. He's nearly as tall as his father but much broader. Craig shuts the door after him. When he gets back upstairs Tricia is standing by the door in her pajamas, apparently waiting for him.

“Hey,” he greets her. “What's up?”

“I just thought, maybe we can hang out for a bit?” she asks. He sees she's holding a DVD in her hands. It's blue with a little yellow-brown robot on the cover.

“I'm not very talkative right now,” he warns.

“I know, but I thought maybe it'd just be nice to watch a movie together.”

He agrees. They go into her room. His own smells like Clyde, a combination of teenage boy musk, flatulence, and Doritos. Her room smells like body spray and lotion. She complains how dry his hands are and makes him use some of the lotion she keeps on the side of her bed. It's lilac scented.

He hasn't watched Wall-E in years. He had gotten into a funk the year Tweek had disappeared and had went through a period of weeks where he watched it almost every day to make himself feel better. He wonders if Tricia remembers that or if the movie choice is pure coincidence.

“You're him,” she tells him, pointing at the little yellow robot. “You can't talk but say a lot.” Then she points at the white robot. “And that's Tweek. He can talk but doesn't know what to say.”


	21. Tweek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm going to apologize in advance for this chapter. It really sucks. It's boring and I couldn't get the style down for some reason. I kept reworking it but I'm giving up and just posting it so I can start working on the next chapter. I promise the next one will be better.

Tweek stares at the ceiling, studying the lines separating the different sections of the dingy cream-colored ceiling panels. He knows them by heart now. The divider section between the panels are long and yellow, sticking out just slightly beyond the edges of the panels themselves. The plastic dividers seem like they would've been white at one point, matching the ceiling panels seamlessly, but they've aged badly to the color of an ancient Macintosh computer. Tweek suspects the cigarette smoke that often fills this room hasn't helped the matter. He wonders how old the ceiling of this trailer is? When was this thing built? The seventies? Eighties?

The boy between his legs is breathing heavily, worn out, his body slick with sweat. He's been rutting against him for nearly ten minutes, if Tweek is to believe the raven-shaped clock hanging on the wall near the door. His movements are jerky, desperate, and Tweek knows he's close. Tweek's hand is resting on the back of the boy's neck, feeling the oiliness of the younger boy's sweat trailing over his fingers. He moves his hand up, cupping the back of his head. His black hair is damp and the newly dyed red splotch stains his hands. He glances at the orange sweat smeared across his knuckles. It contrasts with the black nail polish that Pete had lovingly applied to his nails Sunday afternoon while they were binge watching American Horror Story. At the time it had been a nice experience. Tweek had never painted his nails, had never thought of painting his nails, but lying there between Pete's legs, being pet and pampered, had felt nice.

Now it reminds Tweek of Halloween. Black and orange. Like the lights people hang up outside their houses. Like the colors of slutty witch skirts and lazily Sharpied pumpkins. Halloween.

The day the police came for him.

Already that memory is starting to fade from his mind and he's pretty certain there's some overly complicated reason behind that. Repression, probably. He remembers the earlier parts of the day well enough. He remembers Ghost planning for the holiday for weeks, reading his Human Kindness costume and stocking up on candy. He remembers Ghost bringing him home a Peter Pan costume and telling him to make sure he was wearing it when he came back from fetching his new little brother. He remembers Ghost having sex with him wearing that same Peter Pan costume before he left, despite Tweek protesting they should hold off so the little brother could take part as well. Ghost had told him that his brother wouldn't be ready right away for that but in a few days he would and that once Ghost had prepared him properly that Tweek could show his love for his new little brother “ _Just like I always showed my love for you, baby boy._ ”

He doesn't remember the face of the police. He remembers lights shining in his face. Sirens. The whiteness of a hospital. Not much else.

Pete trembles all over as he cums, his entire body shaking like he can't control himself. Tweek holds him close, his arm tightening around his neck, and listens to the little groans the goth emits as he throbs inside of him. He collapses onto Tweek, sticky and sleek, and Tweek continues to hold him. His breathing begins to even out, the smell of smoke on his breath enveloping them both as he continues to huff against Tweek's ear.

Pete tells him how amazing he is. Tweek is pretty sure that's Pete's way of saying he loves him.

Tweek tells him he's getting good at it.

It's not a total lie. Pete is getting better at sex. He's gaining a sense of rhythm and learning how to touch Tweek during it instead of focusing on only his own pleasure. Tweek had already came first this time, his semen squelching between their bodies like the mayonnaise in a disgusting sweaty boy sandwich. He's also lasting a lot longer, though that might be more due to the fact he's getting sex too often to shoot off like a prematurely-lit firework. Pete likes to fuck him in the mornings before school, right before going to sleep at night, and sometimes, like today, when he gets home from school.

The sex is...okay. Not the best he's ever had but he's beginning to feel tenderly towards Pete. His post-coital body seems vulnerable in a way that Tweek's own has not felt in many years. He likes seeing him like this, exposed, soft, like a hairless baby mouse. It makes Tweek want to protect him.

The goth turns his head, his nose pressing against Tweek's cheek. He kisses the younger boy on the forehead fondly.

“Shit,” Pete curses softly. He sits up and reaches down between Tweek's legs. Tweek feels him slip out of himself, already softening. He glances down and sees Pete fumbling with the condom. The boy nearly drops it when where's a knock on the door.

“Boys!” a woman's voice calls. “Dinner's almost done!”

“We'll be out in a few minutes, Gramma!”

Pete sits further back and disposes of the condom in the trashcan beside his bed. It's a Batman trash can and for some reason that amuses Tweek to no end.

“I swear she just stands out there and listens for the bed to stop squeaking,” Pete complains. He gets out of bed and grabs a dirty shirt off the floor, using it to wipe off his own stomach, then Tweek's. Tweek reaches for the cigarettes, sticking two in his mouth and lighting them as Pete licks the last of the residue off of Tweek's stomach. He takes the cigarette Tweek offers him and smokes it leisurely, his head resting against Tweek's damp belly. They finish their cigarettes before putting on their clothes and heading out to join the old woman for dinner. She doesn't like the smell of cigarettes and Pete keeps them to his bedroom. Tweek wonders if they smell like sex. Probably.

“I made your favorite,” she greets her grandson with a squeeze on his upper arm. Then she smiles at Tweek, spatula in hand. Pete's favorite ends up being baked macaroni and cheese with chunks of ham in it. Tweek digs in. It's chewy, a bit crispy on the top, and the cheese tastes slightly sharp. No, it's not ham. Spam. There's Spam in the macaroni and cheese.

“What would you like to drink, sweetheart?” she asks Tweek. “I brought more of that citrus soda you liked?”

“Sure,” he says. Generic Squirt is better than generic cola, anyway.

Tweek has been living in this woman's trailer for over a week now. Despite a few close calls they had managed to keep his presence hidden until Tuesday morning, when she had opened her grandson's door to collect his dirty laundry and found a half-naked teenage boy reading in his bed.

Thank God she hadn't had a heart attack. She's so old and corpulent, Tweek has no idea how she works full time at the hospital.

She had been quietly surprised at the sight of him, understandably, as he hurried to cover himself before her. He was wearing his shirt and a pair of the unused underwear that Pete had given him (the boy always went commando) but that still wasn't by anybody's definition considered decent. Especially for an old lady who looked one piece of bacon away from a triple bypass. Tweek had been surprised she hadn't screamed.

Instead of screaming she had demanded he march his keister into the kitchen and pointed at the built-in booth, commanding him to sit down and answer a few questions. Who was he? How did he know Pete? Why was he in her grandson's room when he wasn't there? Why was he hiding? She had listened to him talk for hours, his hand trembling, sweat forming on his upper lip, waiting for her to throw him out or even worse, call the cops.

Pete had finally made an appearance after what seemed like hours of intense police interregation. She had given her grandson the sternest glare Tweek had ever seen before demanding of him “ _Peter, why didn't you tell me you were dating such a little angel?_ ”

Then she had cupped Tweek's face in her hands and kissed his forehead forcefully before serving them both a big plate of homemade cookies. Tweek had just sat there in shock, staring at the other boy as he let his grandmother kiss him and brush his bangs from his face. “ _Isn't he so handsome when his hair is out of his face_?”

He doesn't remember his own grandparents very much but he does remember his grandmothers had both been pretty thin. That had depressed him as a child. The grandmothers on television were always plump with easy hugs. She seems like a TV-grandmother. She touches them both frequently and keeps giving them sweets. Something about her reminds him of Edith Bunker from All in the Family. Sweet but maybe slightly ditzy.

She likes Tweek because he isn't like Pete's other friends. He doesn't make nihilistic remarks and wear all black. She likes Tweek because he's proof that Pete is capable of loving someone outside his very selective group of friends and family. She likes Tweek because he watches soap operas with her in the morning and plays cards with her before Pete gets home from school.

She has work today. Tweek feels like she rarely isn't working, to be perfectly honest. Which is just heartbreaking to him for some reason. She's a grandmother, she should be home knitting and baking, not waiting on people in hospital beds.

“It keeps me young,” she had brushed off his concerns over the matter. Before he had given her his hand to help pull her out of the broken down old La-Z-Boy she always sat in when watching her soaps.

She gives them a ride to Henrietta's on the way to work. Pete has dragged him to her house almost every day this week and it's Thursday. The only exception this week had been Tuesday, with Pete feeling like he owed some face time to the old woman after what they had put her through. Besides, she had been off Tuesday.

Henrietta doesn't greet them, she never does. They go inside without knocking, Tweek waving uncomfortably at her parents who barely even look up to acknowledge them, and head right upstairs to her room. There's a black poster with the words STAY OUT printed in the middle hanging on the door. The words are red and drip like they're bleeding. As long as it's unlocked they're allowed in. It's unlocked. Firkel is already there, as well as another girl who had moved to the area when they were in eighth grade. Her name is Rain or Leaf or something like that. Tweek forgets exactly and is too embarrassed at this point to ask. All three greet Pete first, then Tweek.

They hadn't liked him at first. They had looked at him with his blond hair and blue jeans and green sweater and demanded to know why Pete had brought some conformist along.

“There's not accounting for taste when you're getting laid,” Henrietta had scoffed. “But you can't just bring your Justin-wannabe sex toy into my room like this.”

Pete had gone on the offense after Henrietta's worlds, holding Tweek's hand protectively as hetold them about Tweek's ordeals. About being taken from his family, being kept locked up for years. He let Tweek tell them about the sexual assaults. Tweek grazed over the details, but they got the picture.

“That's real pain,” Henrietta, the apparently leader of the group, had confirmed. “You can be one of us.”

Tweek doesn't know if he wants to be one of them but it's better being here with Pete than sitting alone in the trailer. Pete always sits very close to him, his hand resting on Tweek's knee, or in his lap. Sometimes he leans his head on Tweek's shoulder.

Henrietta is reading some of her poetry out loud again. She was dating some chick from North Park, apparently, who had broken up with her for a guy. Her poems are all about how sorry she is for not having a penis and how she wants to carve out her vagina. It makes Tweek cringe.

Pete shows off one of his painting he had brought along. It's of Tweek. Everything he does is about Tweek. On Wednesday he had brought along his bass guitar and played a song on it he claimed reminded him of him. Today's painting is a painting of Tweek shirtless, on his knees with his hands around a skull, neck bent, with a pair of large black wings spread out behind him. For some reason the words “ _If I am an angel, paint me with black wings._ ” are pasted across the bottom in courier print.

“Hot,” the possibly-Rain girl compliments the painting.

“Seriously hot,” Henrietta says. “Do you really have a six-pack?”

No, of course he doesn't have a six-pack. He spends all his free time eating cookies with a doting old woman.

“There's a show on the occult in Denver this weekend,” Firkel informs them all. “I got an e-mail about it from the convention center mailing list. They're going to be like, selling amulets and doing fortune telling. I bet we could buy some voodoo dolls to curse somebody with.”

“Cool,” the possibly-Leaf girl hums. “We should totally go.”

“It's not like, in the morning, is it?” Henrietta asks.

“No, it starts at like six.” Firkel scoffs at the very idea that they'd be out in the morning. Like they don't go outside every morning to attend school. Okay, most mornings.

“Okay, yeah, sounds cool.” Henrietta decides for the entire group. “Let's go.”

Something about the way the goth kids hang out together feels more like a meeting than teenagers just chilling with each other. An official Meeting of the Goth Kids. Like somebody is recording minutes and there's a list of topics that need to be addressed.

Next on the list is Tweek. Pete had helped Tweek write a poem last night and now Tweek is expected to read it aloud for the minuscule crowd assembled in the girl's bedroom. Okay, mostly Pete had written all of it. He had insisted that Tweek needed to write it, to contribute to the group, but when it came to the actual writing part he had ended up ripping the paper out of the blond's hands after one sentence and told him he'd fix it. In the end, Tweek had just ended up describing how he felt that first time he woke up in that room and Pete had woven it into a dramatic piece of alliteration and metaphor. His own description had come surprisingly easily. It was one of those memories that, despite the years, had always remained crystal clear in Tweek's mind. He had gone willingly into the van with Ghost, terrified but unable to turn down his offer for a ride home out of a sense of responsibility. The struggle had been brief, a quick sting to his neck, and then nothingness. When he had awoken he had been on the bed in the basement, still wearing Craig's Red Racer pajamas, and Ghost had been petting his hair. There was a “Welcome Home” banner hanging in the basement. It had hung there for several weeks before Tweek, in a rage, had torn it down and shredded into tiny cardboard pieces.

They all comment on how good the poem is. Firkel especially likes the part about being born back into darkness. Then they put on some music Tweek doesn't know, and isn't particularly fond of, and they all sit in silence for awhile. They seem to do that a lot, usually reading books or something in their own little bubbles. He supposes it's a comfortable sort of silence.

He looks toward Pete. He's grabbed one of the books in the pile between him and Henrietta and is skimming through it. It's a photography book. There's ash dusted across some of the pages. He feels Tweek's eyes looking at him and looks up to meet him.

“Here,” Pete grabs another book off the pile and hands it to him. “It's Neil Gaiman. I think you'll like it. It was one of my favorites as a kid.”

The cover reads The Graveyard Book. He resists a sigh. Everything with these kids is all graveyard and death and despair and pain. He opens it anyway and reads for awhile, pleasantly surprised it's not nearly as dark as he thought it would be. It's a kids book. For really messed up kids. Probably like, Tim Burton's kids.

When Pete sides up to him after a few minutes and kisses him he returns it, keeping it chaste.

“I love watching you read,” he whispers to him. “It makes me hard.”

Everything Tweek does makes him hard, what's new?

“Henrietta?” Pete asks.

“Hm?” she looks up from her book, reaching up to push a few strands of her long hair from her face. It's the same hand she's holding her cigarette holder in, some more ash falls onto the book she's reading.

“Do you still have that needle you used to do my piercing?”

“Yeah, of course, why?”

“I was just thinking my boyfriend would look really fucking hot with a lip ring.” Pete's voice comes across almost vulgar in tone.

“He totally would,” the possibly-Fern girl agrees.

“It'd help him fit in better at the show,” Firkel adds. “Maybe we can dye his hair too?”

“Nah,” Pete shakes his head. “Leave his hair as it is. What do you say, babe, you want us to put some metal in you?”

Tweek's still stunned by the use of the word boyfriend. Boyfriend? Is he Pete's boyfriend? He's living with him and hanging out with him and fucking him, but he never said anything about being boyfriends. He knows the others have called him by the name, and Pete's grandmother, but Tweek had assumed Pete didn't correct them because he didn't want to try to explain what they really are to each other. Roommates? Fuck buddies? Master and pet?

Craig is his boyfriend. Isn't he?

He might be with Pete right now, at this exact moment, but he still considers Craig his boyfriend. He doesn't feel for Pete like he feels for Craig. Even if Pete obviously wants him, something he can't say if is true with Craig or not. He doesn't have those same feelings for Pete. Pete is like a child you want to teach and take care of, not a boyfriend. Not like Craig.

But maybe that's not true for Craig. Maybe Craig does consider them over.

“Found it,” Henrietta pulls a box out from under his bed. “Ring or stud?”

“Ring, obviously,” Pete says, pressing against the back of his own ring with his tongue. “Tweek, you want one, right? I mean, you don't have to do it but it'll look really great.”

“Sure, why not,” he shrugs. What's it matter to him if he has a lip ring or not?

It's quick and painful. Henrietta has him sit on the bed as she stands between his leg. Pete sits on the floor near him, holding his hand, and Tweek squeezes it as she sticks the needle through his lip. Then she's messing with it, fiddling around with his lip, pulling, and there's blood all over.

“Finished,” she declares proudly after a couple minutes of fucking around with him. She hands him a handkerchief to wipe at the blood. “It's going to swell, take some ibuprofen for a few days. And keep it clean.”

His mouth stings. And he has trouble sleeping that night, the pain throbbing as he turns to adjust his position on the pillow.

Pete's grandmother shakes her head when she sees the piercing in the morning.

“I don't know why you let him do this to you,” she tsks, sorting through the freezer. “You have beautiful lips. You don't need to be sticking metal into them.” She hands him a pack of frozen peas. “Put this on your mouth. It'll numb the pain. I hope it doesn't get infected.”

He hadn't even considered the fact it might become infected. What do you do if you get an infected piercing? Get a tetanus shot? He just got one a few months ago, when he was first let out of the basement. Like they thought he was some idiot that couldn't not walk on rusty nails now that he was allowed out in the free world once more.

Gramma sets some pancakes down in front of him and sits in the booth across from him. She's wearing her fuzzy pink robe and her plate is a different color than his. She tells him about one of her co-worker's daughter's as they eat. Apparently the daughter was dating another girl, wasn't that something?

“It wasn't normal in my day,” she says, pointing her fork at Tweek. “And I was a bit worried when I noticed how Peter used to look at that Oriental kid when he was younger. But then there was a gay plumber in one of the arcs on _When The Earth Rotates_ and I realized it doesn't matter if you have two ding-dongs or two who-ha's, love is love.”

Who-ha's?

“I'd much rather see my grandson with a darling boy like you than that shrew he brings around here sometimes,” she continues. “That girl is so negative. And besides, you can't get pregnant. I mean, can you? Has the world changed that much?”

“Uh, no,” Tweek replies. The conversation seems to have taken an awkward turn.

“Good, good,” she nods. She removes a piece of bacon from her own plate and reaches over to set it on Tweek's. “You're so skinny. I try to fatten Peter up but it never seems to stick. You'll help me with that right? Be a good influence on the boy? He's only been with you a week and he's already showering daily.”

A few of her soaps follow after breakfast. Feeling sticky with maple syrup, Tweek heads for the shower. He stops to examine the lip piercing, looking for signs of infection, before accepting he doesn't know what an infection would even look like. It seems like maybe it'd be dripping puss or going green? Something like that. He poses in the mirror for a few minutes, biting at his lip, opening his mouth just a bit.

The lip ring does look kind of nice on him.

Gramma catches him as he exits the bathroom. She's carrying a fresh load of laundry out of the dryer. Tweek holds up the door to Pete's door as she enters with the clothes basket.

“Here you go dear, everything's nice and clean,” she says, setting down a pile of clothing on the boy's dresser. It's a combination of both Pete's black clothing and a few of Tweek's lighter colored ones. They're not separated in any way, just thrown together as she must've folded them. Tweek's clothing looks like highlights, standing out against the majority of black. Holding his towel around his hips with one hand, he turns to pull out the light blue shirt near the top of the pile. Gramma is behind him, gathering up dirty cups and and plates. Tweek thinks briefly of the trashcan by the bed and wonders if she's noticed how many dried out condoms are stuck to the bottom of it.

“Oh, are you a fan of that band?”

“Hm?” Tweek looks towards the wall, figuring she's pointing at one of the posters of the various goth bands Pete listens to.

“No, not one of Peter's little groups,” she corrects. “I mean your tattoo? I can't remember the name of the band. Something with fire? Dr. Carson's son is a big fan of them too.”

“What?” Tweek asks, utterly confused.

“Dr. Carson, I work with him at the hospital,” she explains. “His son came in for his physical last year and he has the same tattoo on his upper arm. I saw it when I gave him his shot. I asked him about it and he told me it was his favorite band's logo but I can't remember the name. I'm sorry. Your memory is the first thing to start going. He's a delightful boy, I believe he's nearly old enough to get his driver's license.”

Tweek's still confused. He has no idea what band she's talking about. A tattoo, of a band's logo? He doesn't have a tattoo of a band's logo anywhere on his body, does he?

Wait, is his tattoo a band logo?

That seems unlikely. Probably just a lie this Dr. Carson had given her to get her to stop asking questions. Tweek can't remember the name of the doctor that had inspected him at the hospital but he's betting it's probably a Dr. Carson. He knew it. He fucking knew it. Chile Carson? Wait, no, Chile isn't his real name. He gave the man that name when he was a boy, didn't he? It was a name that had only existed in his own head.

“Sweetheart, did you hear me?”

“I'm sorry, I was just thinking. What'd you say?”  
“I'm going grocery shopping. Do you want to come with me?”

“Yeah, no problem,” he agrees. Helping an old lady carry groceries is the least he can do for the free room and board.

“Good!” she beams at him. “Let's go pick out some of your favorite foods.”

Tweek doesn't know what his favorite foods are. He's used to eating whatever somebody sets in front of him. Ghost had cut out most food that weren't vegetables and lean meat by the end, complaining that he was getting too big, but even that hadn't been that bad. He would have been fine with the plain chicken breasts and steamed green beans, if the portions hadn't been child-sized.

He picks out some ice cream, knowing he likes ice cream and thinking the cold will feel good on his lip.

By Saturday evening the swelling in Tweek's lip has gone down some. Pete kisses him gently now, knowing the pain Tweek still feels. Their rings don't touch.

He dresses him up in some of his own clothes for the show. They wear about the same size clothing, despite Pete being a couple inches taller. The legs hang a little lower on Tweek but not a big deal. Pete's boots are too big for him so Tweek wears his sneakers.

Henrietta picks them up in her car. It's old, seventies, maybe eighties, and it's not very large. Possibly-Sage sits with her in the front and they squeeze in the back with Firkel. Tweek sits behind Henrietta, who has her seat pushed far back, because he's the smallest. Pete kisses him when they're barely out of South Park and when Tweek returns it the kiss turns into a full on make-out session. His lip aches but he kisses Pete back, giving the boy what he needs. Until Firkel punches Pete in the head and tells him to quit it.

Pete punches Firkel back and pulls Tweek close to himself, just holding him, and Tweek wonders if this is how boyfriends are supposed to act?


	22. Craig

The roar of the crowd is muffled, muted, each voice indistinguishable from the next. It's like listening to waves crash on the shore, deafening yet dull.

Everybody is walking in slow motion. Frederick Johnson is walking in slow motion. To the door. Out the door. He's not wearing handcuffs. His lawyer is smiling.

He's free. The disgusting piece of shit is free. The man who took Tweek from him, abused him, shaped him, warping him into the broken, confused boy he is today, is free to go.

Craig had been both looking forward to and dreading this day for the past week.

On one hand, going to the trial was an excuse to finally see Tweek again. He's been looking forward to laying eyes on him again, of being able to touch him and hear him and smell him. For a few short hours he had went through a period of despair after he had called Tweek's doctor, asking about his appointment time, only to learn Tweek hadn't shown up to any of his appointments in weeks. It had felt helpless then, like Tweek was gone for good, with no way to reach him. Until he suddenly realized Johnson's trial was coming up and Tweek would be showing up to testify.

On the other hand, Craig didn't want to see this man in real life. He wishes the man would just hang himself in his cell and be done with it. He doesn't want Tweek to have to ever be in the same room with him.

Unfortunately, Tweek felt the same way, because he never showed up for the trial.

He can at least appreciate that the judge didn't seem happy with their verdict. Her face had been drawn, mouth in a sneer, as she announced the child molester was free to go.

One victim barred from testifying by a couple of overprotective parents. A second victim a no-show. And a pile of unusable evidence that had been obtained illegally. They hadn't even attempted to move forward with the trial.

One missing warrant and Frederick Johnson walks free.

Craig walks out of the court house, his suit jacket tight around his shoulders, his tie chafing his neck, in a haze. His world is falling apart. Tweek isn't here. Tweek is somewhere where he can't reach him. And this scumbag is free.

He's free right there, standing by a snack machine, talking to a reporter. And he's smiling and charming and boasting about how justice was served today.

Craig rushes at him but never even got close. Two guards grabb him, pulling him back, gripping him tightly but not cruelly.

“I know, son,” the older guard tells him. “I want to bash his brains in myself, but it won't do you any good. You'll just end up doing more time for assault than that sick fuck did for what he did to those kids.”

They escort him out the door, despite his protests that he wouldn't try to attack the man again. They don't exactly shove him out but they definitely encourage his departure. He tries to walk back inside but they block his re-entry.

Defeated, Craig walks back to his car. It's freezing inside and he has to wait for the engine to warm up before leaving so he takes out his phone and checks for messages or calls. Nothing. As usual.

He can't leave Tweek anymore messages. Every time he calls now he gets the message that the voicemail is full. He calls him again, gets the voicemail, then hangs up to text him.

The car is warm enough to head out so he turns out on the road, does a U-turn at the red light, and heads back towards South Park. It's a Monday morning and everybody should be in school right now, which is a shame. He feels like going over to see Clyde, he needs somebody there to pat his back and feed him nachos. Maybe if he texts him, tells him he needs him, he'll skip the last few periods and come over and play video games with him.

He's near the edge of Denver when he sees a familiar orange parka. His first instinct is to just laugh at himself because he's in a city of nearly 700,000, there's no way he'd just run into him. But he slows down at the light and glances over at the figure trudging along the sidewalk and recognizes wisps of blond hair. The figure reaches up and pushes the hood back to light a cigarette.

“Hey, Kenny,” Craig calls, rolling down the window. “You need a ride somewhere?”

The teen looks up and grins. He holds the cigarette in one hand as he inspects his cat-caller.

“You mean it, Tucker?”

“Yeah, get in.”

Kenny McCormick runs around the back of the car, yanks open the passenger door, and slides in. The motion sends in a gust of cold air.

“Thanks man, I'm freezing my tits off out there.”

“What are you doing walking around on the streets in the snow, anyway?” The light turns green and Craig presses down on the gas.

“My car broke down, dude,” Kenny says, holding his hand over the heating vents. He holds the cigarette between his teeth. “It's in the shop but I can't just like, skip out on work, you know? The public transportation in this city sucks though. I have to walk nearly a mile to the bus stop.”

“You heading home right now? Where should I drop you off?”

“Yeah, fun part about getting up at three for work is being off before noon. Take a right up here at the next light,” Kenny instructs. Craig follows Kenny's instructions, wondering how Kenny himself remembers them as he never seems to stay on any one street more than forty seconds at a time. Fifteen minutes later he pulls his car in front of an ancient looking red brick apartment building.

“You want to come up?” Kenny offers, already putting his hood back up.

“Uh, no, that's alright.”

“Come on, I have some whiskey. Nobody ever visits me, you'll be doing me a favor.”

Kenny isn't Clyde but sure, why not? Craig doesn't want to be alone right now. Forgetting sounds nice. Whiskey could help him forget. There's no elevator. Kenny lives on the fifth floor. The stairway has graffiti all over the walls. Craig is suspicious that all the oversize breasts may be contributions from the blond at his side.

The apartment has no central heating. Kenny gets a kerosene heater going as soon as they're inside and tells Craig to make himself comfortable.

“I'll cook us some burgers,” he tells Craig.

The kitchen is only divided from the living room by a bar. Or maybe it's an island? Craig doesn't know shit for terminology. He sits at the bar and watches Kenny. The burgers come from a pack of frozen patties in the freezer, the cheap, bulk kind you use for barbecues, and he serves them up on white bread instead of buns. But a burger is a burger, Craig's not complaining. Kenny pours him a glass of ginger ale from a two liter bottle. It's gone slightly flat.

“What brings you into Denver, Tucker?”

“Tweek's trial was today,” he says lowly. Then he changes the topic as quickly as he can. “How's it feel living here?”

“Well, I have my own apartment, a kerosene heater, and burgers,” he jokes. “Beats a freezing house with only Pop-Tarts to eat.”

The apartment building itself may be lackluster but looking around, Craig has to admire Kenny's job of making up the place. The living room set doesn't match but all the pieces of it look clean and well-kept. The tables look well made of solid wood. There are even some decent pieces of art and decorative lamps dotting the tiny room.

His tiny television looks sad in comparison.

“You have a weird idea of home furnishing, McCormick.”

“And I didn't pay a dime for any of it,” he says proudly.

“So it's true you just take stuff out of the dump?”

“Yeah,” Kenny says happily, then frowns, looking at his television. “Nobody throws out any decent electronics though.”

When Craig's ginger ale is half empty Kenny tops it off with a pour of whiskey, leaving the glass now about two-thirds full.

“Generic Jameson,” he explains. “You need to drink Canadian whiskey with Canadian soda.”

“Jameson is Irish, not Canadian, you dumbass.”

Craig isn't one for hard liquor but it feels rude to not partake. Kenny is trying to be a good host. Even if he is feeding Craig hamburgers and whiskey at noon on a Monday.

They take their drinks to the television. There's no remote for it and Kenny has to reach behind the television to flip a switch manually. Instantly the sounds of moans and the slap of skin cut through the air.

“Oops!” Kenny presses a button, changing the input on the television. “Sorry, rubbed one out before heading to work this morning.”

Who watches porn on television anymore? Like, really? Craig wonders if he lived on his own, without parents or little sisters to walk in on him, would he watch porn on a sixty-inch television screen?

No, Tweek wouldn't like that. He wouldn't want Tweek to catch him watching porn any more than he'd want Tricia to.

Kenny doesn't have cable. He has Netflix, which he has stolen from Cartman somehow, but the internet seems to be messed up today. It keeps freezing. He digs out his DVD collection and settles on Dude, Where's My Car?

It's not enough to distract Craig. Not really. Kenny isn't Clyde. He's not as talkative. He's more chill than Clyde. Sometimes Clyde's obnoxiousness is good at distracting a person.

“Speaking of which,” Kenny cuts in after watching Ashton Kutcher and Seann William Scott make out in front of Fabio, “Where's your boy toy?”

“He's not my boy toy,” Craig replies testily.

“Your life partner, soulmate, I don't know. Whatever you call him. Where's he at?”

“I don't know,” he grits. “I haven't seen him in nearly two weeks, if you must know.”  
“What, seriously?” Kenny stops with his drink halfway to his lips. “I just saw him yesterday.”

Craig freezes with his own drink just lifted off the table, then jerks his neck to look at Kenny.

“Seriously?”  
“Yeah, seriously,” he shrugs. “I mean, I waved at him, but I don't think he saw me.”

“Where did you find him?” Craig demands to know.

“The trailer park by the old Blockbuster,” Kenny says.

“What were you doing at the trailer park?”

“Dude, look at me,” Kenny waves a hand down, indicating that Craig look look at his body, maybe his clothes. “Half my extended family lives in a trailer park. I was visiting my grandma.”

“And you're sure it was him?”

“Nobody has hair like that kid,” Kenny scoffs. “He has hair like- Well, like this one time Karen had this Barbie with black hair. She wanted it to be blond so she decided to 'dye' its hair by dunking it in some yellow paint. Then she hung the thing upside down to dry. When it was done it looked a lot like Tweek.”

“What was he doing there?” Craig asks, ignoring the pretty horrible description of his boyfriend's appearance. He's already reaching for his coat.

“I don't know, he was hanging out with that goth kid. Pete...Salesman? No, Thelman. Where are you going?”

“To the trailer park,” Craig replies, thinking that's an obvious answer. Why would Kenny even ask him that.

“But you've been drinking.”

“I barely touched it,” he assures. “Finish the rest for me.”

The drive back to South Park seems to takes twice as long as usual. There's snow on the road from the night before still and he takes his time, hating the dragging feeling of going beneath the speed limit. Then when he nears the trailer park he can't seem to find the entrance to it. He has to take a dirt road through some trees then take another turn to go through the the trailer park itself.

Only once he's stopped just inside the entrance does he realize how large this trailer park is. There must be at least forty of the cheap housing units spread out across the snowy landscape. He could go from door to door, knocking and asking for Tweek. If he's actually in one of these trailers. What did Kenny say the kid's last name was? He does a google search for Thelman in South Park and finds a few of them. Only one is located in the trailer park though.

Lot D5. He drives slowly, scanning his eyes over the lot numbers. They're carved onto wooden stumps in front of each trailer. He finds the lot he's looking for. There's an old looking Prius parked in the driveway. He pulls his car up by the side of the street.

An old woman answers the door. She's so short she barely comes to Craig's chest. She has to crane her head up as she looks at him, asking if she can help him.

“Um, yeah,” he says, thrown off. He wasn't imagining an old lady answering the door. He wasn't sure who had been imagining but not this. “I'm looking for Tweek? Or a Pete, maybe?”

“Oh, yes dear,” she beams at him. “Are you one of Peter's new friends? They're in his room. Come on in. Do you want to give me your coat?”

“No, I'm just stopping by, I'll be leaving in just a minute,” he assures her.

She tells him the door is down the hall on the right. She starts to tell him to knock first but Craig's already slamming the door open.

It's like pulling the front off of a rat's nest. Like maybe whatever vermin lives there feels some sense of security when it's tucked away in the dark but as soon as light hits the filth and disease is exposed to the outside world.

They're in bed together. Tweek isn't wearing pants but the other boy appears to be fully dressed. But he's on top of Tweek. On top of Craig's boyfriends. And he's kissing him. And his hand is up Tweek's shirt. And Tweek's hand is on the back of his neck. They both jump as he slams the door against the wall.

Craig sets his jaw. He will not blow up on Tweek. He will not yell at him.

“Tweek,” he bites out, “Come on. We're going.”

“Excuse me?” the other boy asks. He's sitting up, climbing off of Craig's boyfriend. Tweek sits up as well, grabbing for a pillow to cover himself. Craig can see his erection straining through a pair of tight white briefs. “Who do you think you are, barging into my room like this?”

“I'm his boyfriend,” he replies, pointing at Tweek. “Babe, put your pants on. We're leaving.”

“No, you can't just come in here and tell him what to do,” Pete objects, storming over to Craig. He's short, scrawny. Barely any taller than his dwarf of a grandmother. Craig could brush him off like a fly. “You threw him out of your car, you can't just demand he go back to you.”

“Tweek,” Craig ignores the goth, talks over his head. “Come on.”

Tweek is looking at him, sort of frozen. He isn't coming. He isn't pulling back either, isn't resisting, but he looks at Craig and then Craig is torn to see him look at the goth kid. Like he's contemplating which one to stay with? And what the fuck is that on his lip? It glints under the red light.

“He doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to,” the boy says. “He's with me now.”

Craig punches him so quickly he doesn't even know he's decided to do so until the boy is on the ground. He swears, angry, and tries to get back to his feet. Craig knees him in the face.

“Craig, stop,” Tweek cries out, suddenly all movement. He's on his knees, trying to help the boy, who's cursing and groaning. Some blood drips on the floor.

“Leave him be, come on.”

“You hurt him,” Tweek protests. “He wasn't doing anything to you and you hurt him.”

“He was trying to take what's mine,” Craig spells it out clearly, calmly, for the blond. “You're mine. I want you. I have always wanted you. You belong to me. I own you. You're my responsibility. I'm going to take you home and take care of you, you get no say in this matter. Now put on your fucking pants and go get in my car.”

Tweek lets go of Pete, stands up, and just looks at Craig. Then he reaches for his pants and slips them on.

“Where's your stuff?”

Tweek points at his backpack. It's near the door, sitting on the floor. Hard to see in the darkness of the room. Craig grabs it for him, throws it over his own shoulder, and then leads Tweek out with a hand on his waist. The old lady squints at them, clearly confused. Craig doesn't spare her a glance.

He opens the door for Tweek and makes sure he's safely buckled in. Then he goes around and gets into the driver's seat.

And finally, he breathes. He puts the car in drive and rolls out of the trailer park.

Tweek is here. Tweek is back with him. He's wiping at his eyes, sniffling. His whole body trembles.

He can't fuck this up again.

“It's okay,” he tells the blond. “I'm not mad at you.”

“You're not?” he asks, clearly confused. His voice sounds small.

“No. It's my fault,” he tells him, trying to keep his voice warm and comforting. “I didn't make you feel wanted. I understand that now. Things will be better now.”

“How?” Tweek ask, skeptical.

Craig reaches for Tweek's hand, taking it tightly in his own, and pulls him closer to him. He holds his hand against the front of his jeans, letting Tweek feel him through them. Just that pressure, knowing that it's Tweek's hand there and not his own, is enough to cause some stirring.

“It's all yours, to do with as you like,” he tells Tweek. “But you're done with everybody else, okay? I don't want a nurse to take your fucking temperature without consulting me first.”

Tweek nods, his eyes big. Craig watches him out of the corner of his eye. He's staring at his own hand against Craig's crotch. As if he just received the best Christmas present in the world.

God, Craig hope this doesn't fuck everything up. Not too bad, anyway. Not to an unfixable level. All he wants right now is to have Tweek with him, they can deal with the rest together.

They're on a long stretch of snowy road when Tweek unbuttons his pants and slips his hand inside. Craig jumps, letting off the gas in surprise. He didn't think it would be this quick. He presses back down on the gas and tries to watch the road as he keeps taking quick glances down at Tweek's hand around his cock. He couldn't really be trying to give him a handjob in the car, could he?

No, he's not. Because he leans over and brushes his lips against Craig's cockhead. He's never had a mouth on his dick before. That was too “personal” for Kyle. He was okay having Craig's dick in him, but any mouth touching was a big no no. Tweek slides down on him and Craig grabs a fistful of his hair, massages his scalp. They both swallow at the same time. Craig suddenly realizes he's doing nearly eighty. Lets off the gas.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You wanted it that badly?”

Tweek nods, murmuring agreement around the dick in his mouth. Craig move his hand up further, from the back of his boyfriend's head to the top.

“This isn't right,” Craig pants out after a couple minutes. “This isn't supposed to be about me.”

Tweek hums something. It feels great but doesn't fix Craig's problem.

There's a few trees to one side of the road. Craig pulls off, parking his car between the clearing, and turns off the ignition. He pushes against Tweek's shoulder, pushing him off him, being careful that his head doesn't bang against the steering wheel.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Here?” Tweek asks, glancing around them. The trees provide some shelter but not enough.

“In the back,” Craig directs him.

The blanket is still there for Valentine's. As well as the lube and the condom. He tosses the condoms aside and goes straight for the lube. Tweek doesn't resist as he bends him over the seat, pulling his jeans down enough to expose his ass.

He's already slippery inside. Already opened, ready.

Craig huffs through his nose. The two had been further along than he'd thought when he had walked in on them. He slips his own fingers in anyway, stretches him further. Tweek moans into the car seat and pushes back against him. Craig pushes his hand against his neck, holding him in place.

“I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able walk for a week,” he tells the blond as he wipes the extra lube off on his own cock. “You're going to love it and scream for me so hard you'll never want any other man to ever touch you, got that?”

“Please,” Tweek begs, his voice muffled from the car seat. Craig isn't sure what he's asking for but he doesn't particularly care. Not right now.

He enters him slowly, feels him clench around him. Tweek makes little whimpery gasping noises. Noises that only Craig will be allowed to hear from now on. He grabs him by the hips, pulls them up higher to meet him. Tweek grinds against the car seat as he fucks him, his hands gripping the seat belts, not touching himself. Craig snakes his hands under him, grabs at his chest, playing with his nipples. Then he pulls Tweek up so he's vertical on his knees, parallel to his own body.

“I want to see you when I'm inside you,” he hisses against Tweek's cheek. “You're mine so I can watch you as much as I want.”

“I'm yours,” Tweek agrees, sobbing. Craig reaches a hand down, grabs at Tweek's dick. He comes almost instantly. Craig pushes him back onto his stomach and thrusts into him hard and fast until he releases into him. He pushes deeper inside, wanting the cum so far up inside of him that Tweek can taste his semen in his mouth.

Then he pulls out and wipes them both down with the blanket.

“You good?” he asks.

Tweek nods, wiping at the tears on his face. Craig leans down and kisses the dampness on his cheeks.

“Did I hurt you?”

Tweek shakes his head.

“Just overwhelmed, I guess,” he sniffs. “Thanks, Craig.”

“You're welcome,” he ruffles the boys hair. “Come on, Hansel and Gretel miss their daddy.”


	23. Tweek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I slip in so many random quotes and references in this fic that I think go over everybody's heads.
> 
> Also, I'm amused by how so many of you guys apparently liked Gramma. I mean, she called Michael an oriental and only is only accepting of homosexuality because she got an old lady boner for the hot gay plumber on her soaps.

Is Craig even awake? Tweek watches the older boy's face as he rides him, his hands pressed against his stomach for balance. The trail of hair leading from Craig's navel to the base of his penis feels coarse, almost like steel wool beneath Tweek's fingers. But the flesh beneath feels soft, taunt. Hot. Every time he lets himself bottom out he hears the slap of skin on skin, feels Craig's cock throbbing inside him. But his eyes are closed. Not clenched shut, not fighting the sensations. But peacefully closed, eyelashes just slightly fluttering on his cheeks as if he were dreaming. His lips are barely parted, his breathing only a hint towards labored.

Maybe he has fallen asleep. He was asleep only fifteen minutes ago, before Tweek woke him up with his mouth around his cock. It's pretty rude to fall asleep with your dick all up in somebody's asshole though.

Tweek slides down fully, lets his bottom rest against Craig's hips, and just watches him. It doesn't take long, ten seconds? Fifteen? One of Craig's eyes slits open and one green eye is looking up at Tweek, frowning.

“Get back to it.” A sharp slap on his outer thigh causes Tweek to jump with a surprised squeak. He digs his knees back into the mattress and pulls up, feels the friction of Craig's dick pulling against his insides, sliding out of him. He's thickest about an inch from the head and when only the head is left in him he feels stretched, just a pinch of pain in the best way possible. He isn't sure if his asshole is throbbing or Craig's cock but it feels awesome. Like an itch only Craig's cock can scratch. He squeezes around the dick in him, enjoying the feeling of being stretched.

He drops back down, harder this time. Craig grunts. Tweek watches him fold his arms behind his head. His eyes are open now, but they're half-lidded with sleep. The blond licks his lips. He likes when Craig watches. He repeats the motion slowly a few more times, grinding against him every time he's completely inside, taking time to appreciate the sensations of being stretched and filled repeatedly. But he's not hitting the good spot yet. Avoiding it, actually, because he doesn't want to cum yet. He's teasing himself and Craig knows it because he finally reaches out to grab Tweek's hips, pushing him back to angle his hips in the right position. And he holds him down, keeps him in place, as he thrusts up into him. His balls slap against Tweek's ass, muffled from the cushion of pubic hair.

Tweek stuffs his own fist into his mouth to smother the scream that escapes through his mouth. He knows they're not the only ones in this house. Mrs. Tucker, or Mr. Tucker, or Tricia, possibly all three, are around somewhere, in various states of consciousness. He can't just scream out his orgasm with wild abandon. He tries to wiggle away without even realizing it and Craig digs his fingers in harder, pulling him back to where he wants him. He's thrusting harder now, faster. Tweek gives up on trying to keep the rhythm and relaxes his body, letting the tension melt from it, making himself go boneless. Craig has learned how to satisfy Tweek so quickly, it's been less than a month since they finally started boning each other obsessively, and he's able to hit Tweek's sweet spot with almost every single thrust now when he wants to.

Tweek cums so hard some of it lands on Craig's face, hitting the corner of his mouth. Craig licks it off as if he had just splattered some spaghetti sauce on his lips. He doesn't let Tweek go, despite the whining the blond starts making. He's oversensitive now that he's released and the feeling of Craig's dick nudging against his prostate, gliding along the rim of his asshole, is too much.

Now Tweek is the one who closes his eyes. He bites his lip, tries to ride it through, tries to not focus on the almost painful sensations of Craig inside him. He wills him to hurry up and cum.

Craig is a good boyfriend because he does just that. His final thrust goes in deeper and hits something a little painful inside of him. He's too big, nothing should be able to fit that far into him. It's a weird ache inside. But it doesn't last long.

When Craig pulls out Tweek feels wet between his legs. Sort of itchy. He scoots back and lays against Craig's chest, supporting most of his weight on his knees. Craig's cock, already half-hard, feels wet against his stomach.

Waking up at the crack of dawn for sex was a great move but now Tweek is worn out. Sleepy. Ready to go back to bed. He closes his eyes, listens to Craig's heartbeat against the side of his head.

“Get your butt in the shower,” Craig says, nudging lightly at his shoulder. “You smell like dick.”

“I'm tired,” he protests, burrowing deeper into the boy's chest.

“Your appointment is in two hours,” Craig is very matter-of-fact. As if he's been sitting at a desk doing taxes instead of fucking his boyfriend to near-unconsciousness. “You don't have time to go back to sleep. We'll grab breakfast on the way.”

“I don't want go go,” he says sleepily. His own voice sounds slurry against Craig's sweat-damp chest.

Tweek complains but he does what Craig tells him. He always does what Craig tells him. Tweek, study for your classes. Tweek, go to this psychiatrist. Tweek, take that stupid thing out of your lip. He feels like Craig is more of a parent than a lover, very no-nonsense.

And it's sort of working. Tweek likes having somebody there to make his decisions for him. Somebody who explains those decisions to him and lets him have a say but not the ultimate call. He know he can't be trusted, sometimes.

His new doctor is a woman. In fact, she's a woman Tweek knew growing up. Mrs. Sharon Marsh. Or rather, Dr. Sharon Stewart. He doesn't know much about her except that she's Stan's mother, used to work as a receptionist at a plastic surgeon's office, and is divorced. He wonders if she started going for her doctorate before or after she had gotten a divorce.

Initially, Tweek had been hesitant to see her. Not only because she was Stan's mother but because he was afraid she would pass on information about him behind his back. But she had assured him at his very first visit that anything said was confidential and that she would treat him like any one of her other patients. Even if she has known him since he could barely walk.

Craig likes her because she doesn't just shove a bunch of pills into Tweek's face and call it a day. Tweek likes her because she's calm when he speaks, and understanding, but she never sounds pitying.

That said, he is back on medication, but only one regularly. An antidepressant that she assured him would also help with his anxiety.

“Those quacks had you on anti-psychotics,” she had cursed under her breath when going over his past medications list. “And lithium? I don't see any signs of bipolar syndrome in you. Here, I'll give you a prescription for a mild sedative as well but that's only to be used on occasion, when you feel like you might be having another panic attack.”

Today they're discussing his feelings of helplessness over some situations. Sometimes she has Craig sit in, when Tweek feels comfortable having him there. Today isn't one of those days. Not because Tweek feels uncomfortable having him here, but because Dr. Stewart doesn't want him in today's session.

“Do you feel like you allow him too much control?” she asks him, not accusingly but with interest. “Does it bother you that he still insists on sitting outside in the waiting room for each of our sessions?”

“A bit,” Tweek admits. He does not mention the tracking app that Craig has installed on his phone. They both decided it was for the best to not bring that up with her. “But I mean, I did quit going to the other doctor without telling him and it led to a lot of trouble.”

“But you're an adult,” she points out. She uncrosses her legs and recrosses them the opposite way. She tends to do that a lot. “You don't need a babysitter.”

“I like knowing he's there to make decisions for me,” Tweek insists. He catches himself before it comes off as defensive. He knows she isn't trying to sway his opinions on his boyfriend, she just wants him to think. “I just wish he trusted me a little more to follow through on those decisions.”

“Do you trust yourself to follow through?”

“Yes. No?” Tweek sighs. He picks up the cup of water that's always in front of him at their sessions. “Maybe. I think I'd try to, anyway.”

“What if Craig tried to make you do something you really didn't want to you?”

“Like, sexually?” He drinks from the cup.

“No, not necessarily,” Dr. Stewart shakes her head.

“Like, say you wanted to go for a walk but he said you had to stay on the couch and watch television. What would you do?”

“I guess I'd watch television,” Tweek admits. He glances at the clock. He knows Craig told him not to worry about the time, about going over, but he still does.

“And you would be okay with that? And please stop looking at the clock.”

Tweek turns his eyes back to the woman.

“If I tried to stand up and leave he could just stop me,” Tweek explains. “He's a lot stronger than me.”

“Do you feel like your size is a hindrance then?” she asks, clearly surprised by that answer. Normally Tweek's reluctance to act in certain situations came from a consuming indecisiveness. She had profoundly remarked he was the type to go to bed hungry if he were left alone to his own devices because he was incapable of choosing between pizza and Chinese. It rang painfully true.

Perhaps Tweek has never brought up the size issue.

“He's a lot bigger than me,” he explains pragmatically. “If he wanted to force me to do something he could.”

“You're not afraid he would though?” She does that thing with her legs again.

“No,” Tweek shakes his head. He looks out the window. It's gray out. It's always gray out during their sessions. He wonders if it'll be gray out in the summer.

“But others? Other men who are large, like Craig is large?” She doesn't tell him to not look out the window like the other doctor used to. She doesn't mind if he looks out the window. She just doesn't like when he looks at the clock. “Is that why you let so many do things you didn't necessarily want to do?”

Tweek shrugs, not wanting to go into that territory. But Dr. Stewart isn't ready to move off the topic.

“I have a suggestion for you, Tweek. One we can try out this week and see how it's going on our next session. If you're willing, that is. Because this is your life and you're in control of your own life.”

“What's that?” Tweek asks, skeptically. She better not suggest he try ordering Craig around or something. Craig makes better decisions than him.

“I want you to go to the gym every day for the next week,” Dr. Stewart instructs, now writing something down on her clipboard before her. “Try lifting some weights. Doing some yoga. Whatever makes you feel 'strong.' And we'll see how that impacts you psychologically. I think a lot of people overlook the effects exercise has on a person's mind.”

“Lift weights?” Tweek asks skeptically. He can barely lift the hamster's cage when he takes it downstairs to clean it.

“Or do resistance training. Hell, get a Shake Weight if you want. I want you to learn the strengths of your own body. I want you to learn that you're not weak.”

“I can try,” Tweek gives in. “But I don't think it will help. I know I'm small. I come to Craig's collarbone.”

“If nothing else exercise releases dopamine and endorphins,” Dr. Stewart shrugs. “At the very least it won't impact you negatively.”

At the end of the session she says they'll continue as is with the medication. His last doctor had upped his prescription every time. She asks if he needs a refill on his Xanax prescription as well. He's only taken two in the last week and should be good for the coming week.

“I'll see you next Thursday,” she says. “Eight, as always?”

Tweek nods. Class in South Park starts at eight-thirty but Craig has a study hall first period this semester (last period he had taken an elective to fulfill one of his art requirements in the same time-slot.) He just barely manages to get Tweek safely home again and race over to the school before the second period bell rings. Normally they require the students to be there at the start of school, for the morning announcements, but Craig's parents have talked to the administration on the matter so they've agreed to cut him some slack.

Craig takes his hand as soon as he's out of the door and walks to the car with him, keeping him close, walking as slowly as Tweek needs to keep up with him. His legs are a lot shorter than Craig's. He waits until Tweek is safely buckled in before driving back to his house. It's a quick drive, usually around eight or ten minutes.

“How'd it go?”

“Fine,” Tweek shrugs, leaning against the window. He still feels sleepy from getting up before the sun was even up. The sex was still worth it. “She, uh, she wants me to start going to the gym.”

“What, why?” Craig shoots his boyfriend a glance from the corner of his eye. “She's a head doctor, not a body doctor.”

“She thinks if I feel physically strong I'll feel mentally strong? I don't know, it made sense at the time.”  
“Alright,” Craig agrees, turning onto their street. “We'll go try one of those free memberships at one of the gyms this afternoon.”

“You don't need to come,” Tweek tells him, even though yeah, he really does want Craig to come. The idea of working out alone in public is sort of terrifying.

“Like I'm going to let my boyfriend get all buff and hot without me,” Craig jokes. “I need to keep up with your or someone will steal you away from me.”

Tweek feels a pain in his chest. They both know that's not true. A guy doesn't have to be more attractive than Craig to steal Tweek away.

Craig doesn't even get out of the car. He doesn't have time, he needs to get to class. When he walks in Tweek finds Mrs. Tucker in the kitchen, eating a piece of toast as she paces around the room looking confused.

“Tweek!” she gushes. “Have you seen my keys? I'm nearly late for work.”

“I saw them behind the coffee machine this morning,” he tells her. He's noticed she has a habit of throwing them on top of the machine when she walks in the door. She reaches behind it and fishes them out.

“Thank you, you're such a doll.” Mrs. Tucker stops to kiss the top of his head as she walks by. “Be good. No parties, no alcohol. There's some Hot Pockets in the freezer and some cold cuts in the fridge.”

“Alright,” he says. Then she's out the door, gone for the day. And Tweek is in an abandoned house, left alone with his own thoughts.

Not for long though. Craig has him signed up for live lectures. They're hosted through YouTube, designed to help people like him, kids trying to get their GED. Each lecture is designed to correspond to a study guide that Craig also bought him. Multiple study guides actually, depending on the subject. He does the exercises in the study guide after watching the lectures, when the information is fresh on his mind. Tweek has to show his notes on the classes, as well as the completed exercises, to Craig daily and he never knows when Craig will be watching to verify the information.

They're easier to understand than the textbook, though Tweek isn't sure if they're real teachers or just amateur teacher-wannabes. He has a biology lecture to turn into at ten. Once he's all set up at the kitchen table with Craig's laptop and his books, he goes towards the Keurig, reaching automatically for one of the coffee K-Cups. Then he changes his mind and grabs one of the green tea ones.

Dr. Stewart says he has a personality that is prone to addiction, and that he should try to curb behaviors that would encourage that. Apparently coffee is one of those addictions. He tries to limit himself to two cups a day and he already had one with breakfast at the cafe Craig had stopped by on the way to Dr. Stewart's office.

'Thank God we got you away from that little emo fuck,' Craig had commented when Tweek first told him what she had said about his addictive personality. 'I can't believe he had you smoking cigarettes. Little shit looks like Edward Scissorhands, except more pleased with himself.'

The lecture is about evolution today. He takes thorough notes and then plows through the homework before his next lecture at one. That one is a math one. He hates Thursdays. Wednesday is English and World History, that might be his favorite day.

There's time between the exercises and the next lecture for Tweek to heat up his Hot Pocket and eat it at his leisure, texting back and forth between Butters in the meantime. Easter is in just over two weeks from today and Cartman is driving to Utah to pick him up. Butters' parents had told him it wasn't worth the journey for such a short vacation, but Cartman had taken the drive to just spend Valentine's evening with him. What's a ten hour drive when it comes to love? They're planning to meet up when he's around for the week.

Craig is the first one home. Well, Tricia is, technically, since she runs into the house, slams the front door shut behind her, and races up the stairs before Craig even puts his car in park. But then Craig is greeting him with a kiss on the forehead, asking him how the day was. He opens the fridge and looks through the shelves before making himself a pastrami sandwich.

“Babe, I've been thinking,” Craig starts as he sits down on the table beside him, sandwich on his plate.

“About what?”

“Maybe it's time I give you some driving lesson,” Craig nods to himself, as if he's already decided on the best course of action. Which Tweek is pretty sure he already has. “You'll need to drive yourself around places, eventually. Would you want to get your license?”

“I, uh,” Tweek fumbles over his words. His driver's license? He hadn't even considered such a fact. Driving is for adults and he's just a kid.

Except he's not a kid. He's eighteen. He could've been driving two years ago.

“You'd let me try driving your car?”

“Well you're not driving my dad's,” Craig rolls his eyes. “Unless you really want to learn stick?”

“Do you know stick?”

“I learned how to drive in my dad's truck, so yeah, of course.”

They sit down at the kitchen table and finish their school work together. Tricia's blaring music upstairs, loudly, and Tweek can feel the vibrations from the bass all the way down here. Craig tilts his gaze upwards, overhead, then rolls his eyes. But he doesn't complain to his sister.

Mr. Tucker arrives home at about four. He's brought home a bucket of KFC.

“What's the occasion?” Craig asks, eyeing the bucket suspiciously. His dad usually doesn't bring food home. He leaves that stuff up to his wife. 'Woman's work,' he calls it.

“No occasion,” he huffs. “I just wanted to treat my favorite son.”

“Works for me,” Craig says, reaching for the bucket in his father's arms.

“I said my _favorite_ son,” he yanks the bucket away from the older boy, setting the bucket in front of Tweek instead. Tweek snorts when he laughs. Mr. Tucker yells up the stairs at Tricia to come down and eat. She bounds down the stairs in socked feet, exclaiming happily when she sees the food that Craig is already dividing onto paper plates.

“Just make sure to save your mother a breast and some coleslaw,” Mr. Tucker reminds them.

Mr. Tucker grabs a beer from the fridge and takes his food into the living room to eat but Tricia stays with them in the kitchen. Tweek shoves some of his notebooks aside to make room for her.

“Craig, the prom tickets are almost sold out,” Tricia says. Even though she's only a Freshman she's already been asked by an upperclassman. Like the rest of the family she also has a bad habit of talking with food in her mouth. Tweek tries to look away. He doesn't want to see masticated chicken skin. “You better buy yours or you'll be out of luck.”

“How many times do I have to tell you all,” he tells her. “We're not going to your faggy little prom.”

“Probably because it's not faggy enough,” she snickers. “This is your last chance. When you're forty you'll regret not going.”

“When I'm forty I'll be too busy worrying about my receding hairline to care about some stupid dance twenty years ago.”

Tweek isn't sure if he wants to go to the prom or not. Mostly, he doesn't. He thinks of people standing nearby him, gossiping. Of douchey guys in football jackets chest-slamming each other and trying to feel up poor girls like they're meat to be sold.

At other times, he remembers the douchey football guys are guys like Clyde and Stan, who aren't really that bad. And he thinks about how it might feel to slow dance with Craig in the middle of a bunch of crepe paper and sparkling lights.

After dinner they join Mr. Tucker on the couch. Tweek sits between him and Craig, feeling small in comparison. Mr. Tucker is still taller than Craig and Tweek wonders if that means Craig still has some growing to do. He's heard men can keep growing until they're twenty, but who knows if that's true?

Tweek likes Mr. Tucker. He doesn't treat him like he's fragile. He did punch him in the arm too hard that one time and push him over, but he had pulled him up and wiped the dirt off of him afterwards. Still, Tweek scoots closer to Craig. He doesn't like when his leg touches the older man.

There had been an incident the first week he had been living with the Tuckers. It had started with another nightmare, his screams miraculously for once not waking the boy sleeping beside him, and Tweek was still shaking when he came out of the bathroom. So consumed with fear, he had checked behind the closed shower curtain immediately and then opened the bathroom door the moment he was finished peeing. Then he had washed his hands with the door wide open, so he didn't feel as trapped in case something black and hairy slithered out of the drain. When he exited the bathroom he had been met with Mr. Tucker, who apparently needed to pee at three in the morning as well. Mr. Tucker had taken one look at him, trembling and big eyed, and taken him downstairs for a mug of hot chocolate. Mr. Tucker had talked to Tweek for a few minutes as he drank his hot cocoa, telling him stories about when Craig was a toddler to try to make him feel better. And it had worked, until Tweek reached for the drawstring on Mr. Tucker's PJ bottoms.

'Oh, son, no,' he had said softly, grabbing at Tweek's wrists. And now Tweek knew how Craig could be such a gentle giant because he was so kind as he put Tweek's hands back in his own lap. 'You don't need to do that sort of thing anymore, alright? We're family.'

Tweek was still mortified by his own behavior and sometimes, despite Mr. Tucker's never-ending kindness towards him, he couldn't stand to look at the older man. Too embarrassed by his own fumbling mistakes.

After an episode of some sitcom Tweek can't recall the name of, Craig stands up and tells Tweek to go get a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Tweek stands and stretches his hands over his head. He feels stiff from sitting around too much today. Maybe this will make him feel better.

“Where are you two going?” Mr. Tucker asks, popping open a second beer. “It's a school night, you can't be spending the night at one of your friends' houses.”

“We're going to go check out the gym over by the church,” Craig replies. “They have one week free trial memberships.”

“Ah, you're going to go lift some weights, huh?” Mr. Tucker asks, chugging from his beer. “That's my boys. Go put on some muscles. You look like a pair of damn drumsticks standing next to each other.”

The gym isn't the only gym in town, but it is the closest. He doesn't like how bright it seems inside. They get the sales pitch when they go in, the associate pointing out weight machines as he talks to Craig and the treadmills as he talks to Tweek. And Craig feels pretty offended because honestly, he wants to hit the treadmills first. Once he's set free he follows Tweek to the free weights instead.

“I have no idea what I'm doing,” Tweek admits, looking at the hand weights and dumbbells. His sweatpants are too long on him, he's walking on the heel of them.

“Might be easier to start with the machines,” Craig suggests, turning to look behind them. About two thirds of them are currently occupied.

“The strength training classes might be good?” Tweek says, but it's more of a question than a statement.

“Maybe,” Craig shrugs, because he doesn't know what strength training classes entail. “But it looks like there's no classes right now. So let's try out some of the machines instead.”

He looks around for two identical machines, so they can figure them out together. He spots a couple rowing machines, side by side. Okay, that seems easy and simple enough.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing his hand and pulling the smaller boy after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done with my finals so hopefully I can do some more frequent updates. 
> 
> I don't recall Sharon ever being given a maiden name so I just named her after her voice actress. If anybody recalls her maiden name let me know and I'll update it.
> 
> Also, should I stop with the gratuitous sex scenes?


	24. Craig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't love his chapter but I've been working on it for like four days and I'm not liking it anymore. So might as well just get it over with so I can move onto the one I want to write.

“Okay, now press down on the gas.” Craig instructs, his neck craned to look behind them. Nothing but black pavement and old, slushy brown snow along the edges by the trees.

“It's not moving.” There's a clicking sound. It repeats several time. The older boy turns around to look down at the other's feet. He's pressing up and down on the pedal, making a creaking noise.

“That's because you 're pressing down the brake,” Craig sighs, touching his forehead as if he's already developing a headache. And he had promised to teach Tricia in a few more years.

“But I just let off the brake,” Tweek protests, sounding frustrated. His voice is strained, reminiscent of the younger Tweek that Craig had once known. He loved that Tweek, but he loves this one too. Maybe even more so because children can only love in a more selfish manner.

“That was the parking brake,” Craig explains to his boyfriend, pointing at said lever on the side.

“Well, what's the difference between a parking brake and the other brake?” Tweek asks, clearly confused. His foot is pressed fully down on the brake now. “Why do we need two brakes?”

“The parking brake is if you're parked,” Craig explains, feeling stupid for explaining that because, well, duh. “Most automatics don't really need one, unless they tend to roll downhill some. I just do it out of habit because I was taught how on a stick shift. I shouldn't have put it on in the first place, I'm sorry.”

“So it's for manual?” Tweek asks. He looks so cute, his forehead creased in concentration.

“Yeah,” Craig replies, “Because you can't shift into park with a manual, there is no park. See, that's park,” he points to the P between them.

“I know,” Tweek objects. “You had me shift from park to reverse already.”

“Well, I wasn't sure if I stated it was park. Maybe you thought it was purr, like a kitten. Now press on the other pedal. That's the gas.”

The car suddenly jolts backwards at an angle.

“Stop!” Craig cries. The car comes to a jerking stop. They're halfway between the parking spots. Craig looks behind them. They're still a good six feet away from the lightpost but that's not enough to make him feel easy.

“You're backing up,” he breathes through his nose. “You don't need to slam on the gas for that. Put the car back in drive and pull back into the spot. Don't worry about getting between the lines.”

The car jumps as Tweek pulls it forward again, just tapping the gas several times in a row but not holding it. Craig tells him to stop again.

“Alright, now put it back in reverse. Press the gas, lightly. Make sure to turn your wheel to the right again. Okay, lightly. A little more.”

Tweek does as instructed. The car starts to turn back into a circle.

“Even out the steering wheel.”

And they're in a straight line, parallel between the two sets of parking spots.

“There, good!”

Tweek grins, the light post barely illuminating the bottom half of his face. The headlights are shining on some shrubs at the end of the college's parking lot. Craig leans over the divider and kisses him. He pulls back when Tweek opens his mouth.

This is Tweek's first time driving a car. When his father had first taught him to drive he had just let Craig pull out of their own driveway and go but Craig had never thought that was the best course of action. That's why he's taken Tweek to the South Park Community College back parking lot at eight at night. There's not a single car in the entire lot. Nothing but expanses of tar and painted white lines. And a few lightposts. Have to watch out for the lightposts.

“Okay, now what?” Tweek is still grinning, looking excited rather than annoyed now that he's pulled off the move Craig had instructed.

“Put the car back in drive.”

Tweek looks at the letters between them, making sure to locate the little D. He shifts into it and waits for further instructions.

“Now go straight. When I say so start turning the wheel right. We're going to turn by the bushes.”

“Okay.”

All in all, Tweek isn't that bad of a driver. A little nervous. A little self-conscious. But capable enough for a first attempt. That doesn't necessarily translate to driving in public though.

“Okay,” Craig says after twenty-minutes of doing loops around the parking lot. “We're going to pull out of the parking lot where we came in. I know nobody is here but use your signals. I want you to get used to using them.”

“You're making me drive on the road?” Like that Tweek's confidence is gone, his voice sounding panicked.

“It's nearly nine,” Craig says. He touches the back of Tweek's right hand with his own. His knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. “Nobody will be out in South Park on a Thursday. It's a good time for you to try a test run.”

“But I don't know where I'm going.”

“Just drive,” Craig tells him. “I'll lead us to the store.”

“Wait, you want me to drive us all the way to the store?” The panic in his voice is rising. Can you give a driver a Xanax? Craig wonders if Tweek has any of his Xanax on him. Probably shouldn't take them when you're driving anyway. He moves his hand from Tweek's hand down his wrist, rubbing at his forearm where the muscles are taut.  
“I told you we needed to pick up some tampons for my mom. It's an easy drive, trust me.” He reassures him. It's only about a mile away, he's driven more than a mile around this parking lot judging by the odometer.

“But what if I get in an accident?”

“If you hit anything at this time of night it'll be a lightpost or something. Don't worry about it,” he says, keeping his voice calm, “This car is a piece of shit, I don't care if you total it.”

Okay, that's not totally true. Craig's car might be a piece of shit but it works well enough. But his words seem to work. Tweek manages to drive the entire way to the grocery store without too many mistakes. He drives over one curb, cutting the turn too close, and subsequently takes a few other turns that would be too wide if other people were on the road. But all in all it goes pretty well. Tweek's shaking with nerves when he pulls into one of the parking spaces at the very back of the parking lot. He's not centered but Craig doesn't mention it to him. There are plenty of empty spots around them.

“Good job,” Craig touches his shoulder. “Told you that you'd be a pro at it.”

“Is that all it is?” Tweek asks, excited. His eyes look big in the glowing light of the supermarket's giant sign. “Am I ready to take the test?”

“No,” Craig laughs. He ruffles his hair, messing it up. “Hell, you don't even have your permit yet, I shouldn't really be driving with you, but whatever. You need to take the written test and some classes. Not to mention learning parallel parking and three-point turns.”

“That sounds like it will take awhile.”

“Maybe,” Craig concedes. “That's why I wanted you to get a start on it.”

He takes off his seat belt and opens the door. Tweek follows suit. The grocery store closes at eleven so they have plenty of time to get what they need and head back out. Tweek grabs one of the hand baskets and walks through the aisles, looking at random things.

“Can we get Oreos,” he asks, holding up one of the specialty flavored boxes.  
“Yeah, go ahead.” Craig is following behind him, smiling. Tweek swings the basket as he walks like a kid with a bag. “Mom gave me a twenty and told me to keep the rest.”

“How much are tampons?”

“I don't know, like six bucks?”

Tweek throws the pack of Oreos into the basket and adds some bread and butter pickles when they go by the condiments aisle. Craig goes to take the basket from him, seeing the handle bite into his palm under the weight of the pickles. Tweek pulls it back from him.

“I'm carrying it,” he insists.

“Okay, fine, you carry it.” He takes Tweek's other hand instead, letting the boy lead him.

They locate the feminine hygiene aisle. It's full of tampons and douches and yeast infection creams and pregnancy tests and condoms. It feels mean to stick condoms in that aisle. Craig and Tweek don't use condoms anyway, but it feels like a cruel joke to make teenage boys walk down this aisle just to get laid. Like, oh, you wanna stick your dick in someone? Better suffer the humiliation of yeast infection cream first.

“Which ones does she want?” Tweek asks. His cheeks are pink with embarassment.

Craig looks at the rows upon rows, columns upon columns, of menstrual products. They're in various shades of blue and purple and pink. He thought it would be easy to remember which one she uses, she leaves the box open on the back of the toilet, but now they sort of look the same.

“Do you think it matters?” Craig asks.

“Yeah, dude, I think it does,” Tweek nods energetically. “Like, do vaginas come in different sizes like penises? What if you got her one that was too small and it slipped out?”

“Don't talk about my mom's vagina. That's gross,” Craig wrinkles his nose.

“I was talking about vaginas in general,” Tweek insists.

“Whatever. Okay, I think it's...” he reaches for a box labeled Kotex, remembering the “x” at the end but that doesn't look right. No, it was the name of some jewel. Craig remembers vaguely as a child thinking they were packs of jewelry. That if you opened one of the little packages you could pull out a pearl necklace and wear it for the day but they were disposable and you needed a new one daily. Pearl. That's it. Tampax Pearl. He finds a box with the name. There's a whole row of just Tampax Pearls. Light absorbency? Regular? Why bother having different absorbency? Like, wouldn't you want it as absorbent as you can get it, just in case? Maybe Tweek is right about this size thing.

“Craig,” Tweek says softly. “Can we please go.”

“In a second,” he squeezes Tweek's hand. “Nobody will make fun of you for being near the tampons, I promise.” Unless they run into Eric Cartman maybe.

“Craig, please,” Tweek whines, his voice sounding much more upset and urgent than it should over being caught buying menstrual products. Craig looks up towards him and sees Tweek is looking at him. No, past him, down the aisle. Craig turns his head to look also.

She's there. Tweek's mother. She's looking at shaving creams near the end, her head bent down as she reads something. The labels? Probably the prices. She looks as impeccably put together as always, as if she hasn't lost everything in her life worth keeping hold of in the last decade.

“Shit,” Craig curses under his breath. He grabs the one marked “regular absorbency” and pulls Tweek down the aisle, the opposite way of where his mother is standing. He's not sure if she spotted them.

“You okay?” he asks, once they're sequestered away in the cereal aisle.

“Yeah, I'm okay,” Tweek says, breathing slightly erratic. “No big deal. I, I just didn't want to confront her is all.”

“That's fine,” Craig tells him. “This is a small town, it's bound to happen eventually but I'm good avoiding it as long as possible. Come on, let's check out before she's finished.”

Craig holds Tweek in the car for awhile, not even asking him if he wants to drive home. He pulls him across the divider of the car, pressing his head against his chest, kissing the fluffy hair on top of his head. He's not crying, not even that outwardly upset, but he knows he's close. He's gone mute.

“Don't worry about her,” he tells the blond. “She's not even worth thinking about.”

Tweek nods. His hair tickles Craig's nose. He rubs it into Tweek's scalp to avoid sneezing.

Tweek is quiet the rest of the evening. They watch a couple of episodes of Venture Bros before bed and Tweek laughs, so Craig knows he'll be alright. Still, he wakes him up in the morning before leaving for class.

“Did you need me to stay home?” He has his jeans on but it'd be easy to remove them and crawl back in bed. His mouth tastes like toothpaste.

Tweek shakes his head. Accepts the dozen or so kisses peppered across his face. He has morning breath but Craig couldn't care less.

“You've already skipped enough days,” the younger boy says. “The classes will help distract me. Go to school.”

“Okay, but if you need me just text and I'll come home,” he replies, standing back up.

Class drags worse than usual. But Tweek doesn't text asking him to come home. He barely texts him at all actually, knowing Craig is busy with class, just the occasional cute animal picture. He googles cute animals whenever he's feeling down. Craig googles sloth memes, sending him a picture of two sloths holding each other with the words “sloths of love” superimposed over the image. Tweek texts back a heart.

Then at shortly after one, he receives a phone call. Right in that five minute mark between classes. Tweek's face appears on his screen, wearing a flower crown that Tricia had made him and smiling shyly. Does he have his schedule down that well or is it pure coincidence he chose now to call?

He answers it as he's dropping his books in his locker.

“Tweek? Did something happen with your mom?”

“Yes, I mean, no,” Tweek gulps, it's audible across the phone. “Something happened but not with my mom. It's not that big of a deal but could you come home, now? If you can?”

“I only have two classes left,” he brushes off Tweek's worry. “I'll be right there. Did you want to tell me what's the matter?”

A pause.

“Not over the phone, if that's okay?”

“Yeah, that's fine. Be right home.”

He rushes home, which isn't that difficult at one o'clock when everybody is at work or in school. He's afraid of finding Tweek sobbing in their bed, hell, maybe even in the bathtub, his wrists slit, pink water overflowing onto the tiles.

Tweek is just sitting at the kitchen table as usual. This is how Tweek normally greets him, complete with school books piled nearby and papers spread out in front of him. Except he's staring off into the distance, eating an Oreo. The package of Oreos sits in front of him, nearly empty. Craig never realized Tweek was a comfort eater. Or maybe this is a new development.

“Honey?” he asks, unbuttoning his coat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Tweek focuses his eyes, turns to look at him. “Yeah, I'm okay. I just, just didn't want to be alone.”

“What happened?”

Tweek bites at his lip and looks down at his papers. Craig is wondering if maybe something triggered him. He's read about that, about people being triggered by certain things. Maybe he had to read a passage from The Room from his English class or something that set him off.

“This came in the mail,” he says finally, scooping up a few of the papers and holding them out to Craig. He looks at them. They're not notebook papers. Stationery. Nice stationery. He's getting deja vu from when Tweek's father had sent him that simple letter. But Tweek is holding a decent sized pile of papers and Richard never used stationary. Craig takes the paper from him. The top of the paper has a bird printed on the right and a flower on the left. He skims the first paragraph quickly, not thorough, just wanting to gauge what's happening.

It can't be.

He flips to the end and sees the letter signed Frederick Johnson. Then he looks at Tweek. He stares back at him, blue eye devoid of emotion. He's not giving anything away. So Craig flips back to the front and reads the letter. It's thirteen pages long, one-sided. The fancy trim around the side limits the actual writing space in the material so it reads quickly.

Niceties. Followed by some apologies. Then some shit about going to therapy for his problem and making amends. Followed by more apologies. Some shit about being thankful to Tweek for not testifying against him, giving him a second chance. And a plea to be allowed to be part of his life.

To be part of his life.

Craig reads the last few lines again, disbelieving.

'I hope someday we will be able to reestablish our family bond. You'll always be my son and I want to be part of your life and for you to be part of mine. I know we both have a lot to overcome before that is a possibility but I'll always love you as a son and I hope you'll always see me as your father.'

What kind of sick fuck...

“It came in a manila envelope,” Tweek explains once Craig drops the letter at his side and just stares at him. “I had to sign for it. That, that means he knows where I am.”

“I won't let him near you,” Craig promises. “I'll slit his fucking throat if he even tries.”

“You're not always around,” Tweek replies. “I need to learn how to take care of myself.”

“You will,” Craig tells him. “But that's not something you can learn overnight. Stay here.”

Craig sets the letters on the table and disappears upstairs, leaving Tweek to nibble at another Oreo while he stares at the words. They're written in violet ink. The stationery is a light blue. Robin's egg, maybe.

Craig returns holding a pistol.

“My dad keeps this in his dresser for emergencies,” he explains, holding the gun out for him to see. Or maybe for him to take. He's not sure if he wants Tweek to take it or not. Doubts he will. “Probably just waving it around will be enough to make that kid-fucker piss his pants and run. But I'm going to teach you how to fire it anyway. Get your coat, we're going to the shooting range.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

Admittedly he's biased. He sees Tweek as this fragile, ethereal little creature that needs protecting. He expects him to shiver, maybe refuse to even touch the gun. The delicate features of his face are stony as he follows Craig's instructions on how to load the weapon.

“Is it too heavy?”

Tweek lifts the gun, aiming towards the target. Seeing how it feels. He holds his arm out straight ahead at first, then bends his elbow down by his side. He bounces his arm slightly, feels the weight of the gun weighing him down.

“I like it,” he declares, nodding. Then he grins. “Do I look badass?”

Badass? With his wild sunflower hair, grey sweatpants, and Captain Crunch t-shirt? All leanness, sinew and bone? Holding the gun pointed straight up.

“Yeah, you do,” he says, not lying. His boyfriend does look pretty badass. Must be Craig's old t-shirt.

Tweek ends up being a better shooter than a driver.

As Tweek is on his fourth round, Craig feels his phone in his pocket buzz. He checks it. A message from Clyde. Keeping one eye on Tweek, he opens the messenger. He's demanding to know where he disappeared to. School's already out for the weekend.

'Mini-emergency,' he texts back.

'U 2 avalable? Taco bell'

'At shooting range, teaching tweek to shot gun.'

He isn't surprised when the phone rings almost immediately.

“One second,” he yells into the phone because there's no way he can hear Clyde among a bunch of firing guns. He waves at Tweek and points to his phone and then out towards the car. Tweek nods and takes another shot at the target. He hits the paper man in the shoulder. Fuck, not only is his boyfriend hot he's apparently dangerous as shit.

He waits until he's in the car, door closed, before talking. He can still hear the firing outside but it's tolerable. At least he can hear Clyde's voice now.

“What the fuck are you two doing with a gun, Craig?”

“I just thought it might be for the best if Tweek can defend himself. Just in case,” Craig replies elusively.

“You should've invited me along. I'm great with guns.”

“When's the last time you shot one?”

“Uh, like seventh grade, I think. Whatever. We're going bowling tonight, you want to come?”

“Can't. We're busy.”

“You're always busy. You can suck his dick another night.”

“We're going to the gym,” Craig replies, rolling his eyes. “We've only been going like a week. Everything online says you should try to get a routine at the beginning or you're more likely to make up excuses not to go.”

“Wait, you two are hitting up the gym?” Clyde asks, his voice incredulous. “Why didn't you invite me?”

“Why would we invite you?” Craig asks. “You just use the weight room at school.”

“Dude, that weight room is only for the athletes,” Clyde reminds him. “I'm off the team now. They don't let me use it anymore. My muscles are like, withering away. Let me come with you.”

“You're going bowling,” Craig reminds him.

“Well I'm not going to the gym on a Friday night, obviously,” Clyde replies. “Hit me up Monday though? I'll show you how a real man lifts.”

“Right, a real man,” Craig smirks. “A real man who sleeps with a giant Costco teddy bear in his bed.”

“You said you wouldn't bring that up,” Craig can hear the annoyance in the brunette's voice.

“No, I said I wouldn't tell anybody else about it,” Craig clarifies. “I didn't say I wouldn't tease you mercilessly about it for the rest of your life.” He spots Tweek walking towards the car, still holding the gun at his side. “Gotta go. I think Tweek needs me to pay for another few rounds for him.”

“I can't believe you let him have a gun, he already blinded me,” his voice is playful. Craig appreciates that. Appreciates that Clyde is so capable of just letting stuff go.

“I should've given him a gun months ago,” he replies, “He's got a total Billy the Kid vibe going on. Text me tomorrow, we might be going to the arcade.”

He hangs up the phone and climbs out of the car to greet his boyfriend. He looks ecstatic.

“I want to do this every day,” he tells Craig, holding the gun up by his head, pointed towards the sky. “I feel like a cowboy. I always wanted to be a cowboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delay in this chapter has nothing to do with the fic PBJellie and I started, it was more just an issue with me not liking my writing in this instance.


	25. Tweek

Tweek keeps staring at Clyde's eye as he attempts to ignore the grunting men and banging metal all around him. He catches himself doing it, repeatedly, and tries to look away. But it's difficult to look away without it being obvious. They're both looking ahead in the mirror and he keeps catching his own reflection's awkward faces.

It's not that Clyde hasn't hung around Tweek since the accident. He's been around pretty often the last month really, playing video games, going to the movies, eating out at Burger King or Taco Bell. But Tweek has become used to seeing him with the eye patch. It's part of him now, fixed in Tweek's mind. Like the shape of his nose or the color of his hair. Things that could change but usually don't.

Except removing an eye patch is a lot easier than getting a nose job. And apparently working out with the eye patch is “gross” because Clyde sweats “ a lot.” That last part is true, Clyde does sweat a lot. But couldn't you just wash the eye patch?

Gross, now Tweek is wondering if Clyde ever washes the eye patch or if there's weeks worth of sweat and dead skin cells soaked through that thing. Couldn't that cause an infection? Like wearing dirty underwear day in, day out?

His eye doesn't look particularly bad. Maybe if Tweek hadn't known about it he would assume Clyde just has a lazy eye. But he does know and every time he glances up and sees the eye not quite parallel with the other he feels guilt in the pit of his stomach. Craig told him it had gone slightly milky but it looks the same color as the other to Tweek. It might be the lighting in the gym though. It was thir strange combination of dark and fluorescent.

“You're locking your knees again,” Clyde scolds him. “Stop checking yourself out in the mirror and concentrate.”

He's helping Tweek with his form for free-lifting. Which is sort of hilarious since Tweek hadn't planned on doing any free-lifting. But Clyde had taken one look at Tweek and Craig working out on some weight machines and promptly declared they were wasting their time on chick machines.

“No, you're jerking again,” he scolds again. “It's supposed to be a smooth motion. Resist the pull of gravity, you don't want to cheat with momentum.”

“How do you know this shit?” Tweek asks, surprised that he's breathing heavily already. He didn't think you could get out of breath from weightlifting. They weren't running on a treadmill for fuck's sake.

“I've been lifting weights since sixth grade,” Clyde tells him. “I started packing on the muscle so I could play football when my dad told me it wasn't in our genes.”

That uncomfortable feeling that sits heavy in his chest every so often returns. Sixth grade. Clyde has been putting in hours at the gym for six years to get the size he is now. To Tweek it had been a sudden transition, from a slightly chubby nine-year-old to an oversize barrel-chested seventeen-year-old. He wishes he had been there to watch Clyde as a kid still, trying to figure out how to lift weights alone in his garage on balmy summer nights. For some reason he imagines that Clyde must've had some weights or something in the garage, he doesn't know why.

“There you go!” Clyde crows enthusiastically. “Perfect! Look at yourself in the mirror. That's perfect form.”

Tweek isn't sure what he's doing differently now that he was earlier. He watches the muscles in his arms flex and relax. They're not particularly large. Visible only because of how thin his arms are otherwise, really. But he likes seeing them all the same. Visible proof that there is some strength inside him and that it's something that can grow.

Clyde suggests the squat rack next. He has Tweek stand in the middle of this cage of bars and starts touching him in a way Tweek doesn't feel entirely comfortable with. He's pressing at his shoulders and hips, positioning him.

“Clyde!” Craig barks out from near a leg press. “Stop groping my boyfriend! You man whore!”

“I'm showing him how to do squats, you pussy!” Clyde calls back to him. “Do you want him to hurt himself because he's putting all the weight on his back?”

“You know, my arms are pretty tired,” Tweek steps away from Clyde's busy hands. “I think I'm going to go hit the treadmill for awhile instead.”

“This is a leg exercise,” Craig protests. But Tweek is already walking at a brisk pace toward the cardio equipment.

They stay another thirty-minutes, all three disappearing into the locker room to change together. Tweek changes with his back to everybody and Craig stands behind him, casually blocking him with his body. Clyde strips down naked and heads towards the showers, not even bothering to conceal himself with a towel, letting it all swing free. Tweek wonders if he's a grower because he's definitely not a shower. Craig doesn't look particularly disturbed by the sight. High school boys shower after gym together, don't they? They didn't need showers in elementary school. Their sweat didn't smell.

Ghost had been so upset when Tweek had begun to reach puberty. When he had noticed Tweek growing pubic hair he had gone quiet and left the room, not returning for three days. When he finally came back he had assured him he wasn't angry with him, but he had made Tweek shave it regularly all the same. The use of deodorant had been equally confusing. He'd just slipped it into a bag of his normal hygiene products one day, no instructions given except a sticky note with the words USE THIS EVERY DAY written on it stuck to the front. Tweek had been mortified because he hadn't even noticed a change in his own smell.

“I think we're both going to be sore tomorrow,” Craig tells him. Once Tweek had abandoned him, Clyde had forced Craig into his spot at the squat rack. He was already walking sort of weird.

“Maybe,” Tweek agrees. But he's been sore since the first day they went to the gym. Takes time for the muscles to get used to it, he supposes.

“We don't have to go over,” Craig tells him. They had agreed to hang out with Clyde at his own house after the gym. Hanging out at Clyde's house usually meant smoking pot, which is something Tweek doesn't do but Craig does when he's over there. He dislikes the smell of it and it feels sort of lonely on one side of the room, trying to avoid the smoke, as they huddle together on the other side around Clyde's old dragon bong.

“No, it's okay,” Tweek tells him. “I know you like hanging out with him. I'll be okay.”

Clyde isn't a bad guy. He's brash and loud, crude in a way that Tweek doesn't get. He thinks it's supposed to be funny but it just comes across as sort of stupid. But he's not genuinely mean, just sort of stupid. Tweek likes Butters better and is excited to see him next week when he's finally home for Easter break. That also means Craig will be off, which he's looking forward to. There's been talk about a road trip to the Grand Canyon but he has no idea how serious that idea is.

“I'm not sure if weight machines are for me,” he confesses, wincing as his muscles protest as he reaches for his shirt. He doesn't feel sweaty enough to change. “I was thinking of maybe taking an exercise class instead?”

“There aren't any after four,” Craig reminds him. He pulls his shirt off over his head. He's so thin, skin always lightly tan in a way that neither Tweek nor Clyde are. Some Latin blood, he had mentioned once, vaguely. Tweek isn't sure if that meant he was part Mexican or Italian but he felt too stupid to ask for further clarification. Tweek wants to touch the smooth skin on his stomach. He feels riled up.

“Yeah, I know,” Tweek rubs at the back of his neck. “I was thinking of maybe coming on my own a couple days a week, you know? It'll give you and Clyde more time to hang out on your own.”

“We don't need alone time,” Craig insists. He touches Tweek's shoulder. The blond smiles at him and shakes his head.

“I think Clyde would appreciate it,” he tells him. “I'm okay with that. Um, there's a kickboxing class held on Wednesdays and Fridays in the morning. That's when the English lectures are and you know that I don't need to watch the lectures for those. I can do the lesson plans without them.”

He's rambling. He feels like he's making up an excuse, like he's lying, and he feels stupid for it. But he doesn't want Craig to worry about him. Like that shit with Clyde touching him. Does Craig think he'd want Clyde because of everything that happened? He has no interest in Clyde. Though to be fair he hadn't felt any interest in any man he's ever had sex with, except Craig.

“Tweek, breathe,” Craig slips his arm over his shoulders and presses his cheek against Tweek's head. “I'm not going to tell you that you can't go to a fitness class if that's what you want. You know I only monitor what you do because I'm worried, right?”

Tweek nods. That's why he hasn't told Dr. Stewart about the stuff Craig does. He knows how it would look from an outsider's perspective. Abusive. Controlling. At the very least distrustful. Tracking his location on his phone and checking his homework screamed abuse.

“But do you have a way to get here on your own?”

“I figured I'll check the bus schedule,” Tweek says. “I can do my English exercises on the ride.”

“That's fine,” Craig tells him. “Remind me to give you money for the bus, okay?”

“Okay,” Tweek agrees.

They're kissing when Clyde returns, wet, with his towel around his waist. He slaps Craig on the ass and tells him to take it to the sauna.

 

* * *

 

Butters is home earlier than expected. Tweek had expected him to have the same time off as the local schools but he's back on Wednesday morning.

“It's a boarding school,” he explains after hugging Tweek in greeting. “They let you have an extra week because so many of us have to travel. But we get out later in the summer.”

“You just got in?”

“Saturday,” he says. He removes his scarf and hangs it on the Tucker's coat rack. “But Eric and I, well, we were busy over the weekend. And then yesterday I ran into my mom at the gas station. I didn't tell them about Eric, lied and said I got a ride with a classmate, but they made me go home with them. Eric is going to pick me up here after school, if that's alright?”

“I'd appreciate the company,” Tweek says truthfully. “Let me text Craig and let him know you're here. I'm sure he'll let me postpone today's lessons until later if he knows you're here?”

“Well, gee, I don't want to get you in trouble.”

“Don't worry about it,” Tweek insists. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Butters bends to untie his boots. Craig doesn't respond to his text immediately. The other blond has a backpack over his shoulder and now he removes it, unzipping the top and reaching in.

“I thought we could do this?” he suggests, holding out a box to Tweek. It's has a picture of a plastic dinosaur on the front. A toy model?

“I never liked those meat eating ones,” Butters says, his voice going timid. “But I like sauropods because they're like big shell-less turtles. I feel like a baby one would've been awfully cute.”

“Sure,” Tweek agrees hurriedly. “Yeah, that sounds fun. Let me make us some hot chocolate.”

Now the thing is, Tweek normally ignores the phone when it rings. Anybody who needs to reach him can reach him by texting or calling his cell (his new cell that is – his mother had cut him off her plan immediately after throwing him out but Craig's mom had insisted on him being added to theirs) so there is really no need for him to ever answer the house phone.

“I told them where I would be,” Butters rubs his knuckles together. “Sometimes they'll call to make sure I'm not lying.”

Tweek still doesn't feel comfortable with the idea. As accepting as they have been with him he's still a guest, not a family member, and it feels weird to pick up their phone. Butters has no issue answering it.

“Tucker's residence,” he answers, “Can I take a message?”

He listens for a response, glancing at Tweek with the phone to his ear.

“Oh, yeah, sure, he's here,” Butter says. He holds out the phone to Tweek. “It's for you.”

Tweek knows who it is before he even takes the phone from the other boy. But he takes it anyway.

“Hello?” he says, his voice coming out so quiet he can barely hear it himself.

“Baby boy,” Ghost's voice comes from the receiver. “I've been trying to get hold of you. It's, it's daddy.”

“Yeah,” Tweek replies, words fumbling on his tongue. He's frozen suddenly. He doesn't know what to say. His heart is thumping in his throat.

“I sent you a letter, did you get it?”

“Yeah,” Tweek replies again. He sees Butters looking at him. He grabs at the long cord. It's one of those phones with the long twirly cords that mess up easily. He turns his back to Butters and speaks towards the wall.

“This isn't a threat or anything,” Ghost coos into his ear. “I just needed to speak to you.”

“Yeah,” he says again.

“I haven't even seen you since Halloween night. I know you're upset with me but, but we went through a lot together and I miss my baby boy.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn't notice he's clenching his fist, his nails digging into his palm, until he feels Butters' touching the back of his hand. He loosens his grip but keeps the fist, looser now.

“Who is it?” Butters whispers at him.

“I was hoping we could meet somewhere,” Ghost says. “Somewhere public. Like Starbucks, maybe? I just want to see you. I promise I don't want to hurt you.”

Tweek catches himself before he responds with another “yeah” because this isn't a “yeah” situation. This is a definite “no” situation. His voice catches in his throat. There's tears on his cheeks.

Butters pries the phone gently out of Tweek's vice-like grip. He pets Tweek's head.

“Who is this?” he demands, his voice suddenly going bossy. “Are you a reporter? Tweek doesn't do interviews!”

Tweek doesn't hear the telltale murmur from where he's standing. He's close enough to Butters he should. Butters hangs the phone back up in its cradle.

“They hung up,” he explains. “Are you okay? You're, you're-” Butters reaches out and touches Tweek's face, wiping at his tears. Tweek reacts by surging forward, kissing him hard on the lips.

Butters makes a surprised muffled noise and pushes back at Tweek, arms on his shoulders, pushing him off him. Tweek falls back against the wall.

“Now none of that!” Butters scolds, wiping at his mouth. “You know better than that!”

Tweek has no idea why he kisses Butters. He isn't attracted to him, at all. He's about as attracted to Butters as he is to Tricia. The boy leads him to the table and sits him down in front of their half-finished dinosaur model. He refills his hot chocolate and sets it before him.

“Drink this.”

Tweek nods. The warm liquid feels good going down his throat.

“Now do you want to tell me what that was about?” Butters asks, it sounds more like a suggestion than a command. Tweek is sure Butters knows exactly what that was about. “That was him, wasn't it? That Johnson fellow?”

Tweek nods.

“Has he called before?”

“I don't know,” he confesses, resting his head in his hands. “Maybe? I never pick up the phone.”

“Do you want me to call Craig?”

Tweek shakes his head. He just had Craig come home early on Friday. He can't call Craig every time something goes wrong. He thinks about the gun he's stored away upstairs in their bedroom, on the shelf in the closet, inside an empty shoe box. It had been full of old school papers that Craig had told him were fine to throw out. An assortment of notes and homework from 2015. He'd left a few in the bottom and put a few on top, just to camouflage it.

“Can you not leave, please?”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Butters assures firmly. “Now you sit there and drink that cocoa and I'm going to bake us some cookies. This is nothing a good batch of cookies can't fix!”

In the end, Tweek doesn't tell Craig about the call. He ponders it over his head for awhile but for some reason cannot bring himself to tell him. Maybe because he doesn't want to worry him. Maybe because he's ashamed of not cursing him out on the phone or just hanging up on him.

When he goes to the gym the next day he packs the gun into his bag beside his homework. Just in case. He stores everything in one of the lockers, along with his clean clothes, and goes to his first kickboxing class.

And it's awesome. He sucks at it, he can barely keep his balance and he hits like a baby bird compared to the regulars, but he loves it. He loves the feeling of power that surges through his body as he kicks and punches. He loves the sweat that coats him in a sheen over his entire body, the way his chest aches from his rapid breathing. He feels like he can barely catch his breath, like he's close to having a heart attach, and it makes him feel alive. He doesn't think of Ghost.

He barely manages to wobble back into the locker room afterwards. His knees feel like jelly. He fills his water bottle at the fountain and takes a handful of large swallows in a row, nearly draining it. His hair hangs in his face, dripping with sweat. The room is half-filled with other guys, most of them looking several years older than him, almost all as sweaty as himself. He recognizes most of them from the class. He was probably the youngest one there. Everybody his age should be in school on a Wednesday morning at ten.

There is one guy who looks close to his age though. Maybe twenty? He's wide-shouldered, maybe about five foot ten, sporting a five o'clock shadow, and he's smoking. In a public locker room. Tweek's pretty sure it's illegal to smoke in a public building.

The man catches him looking at him, raises an eyebrow that may be considered questioningly but seems more challenging than anything else. Tweek turns away from him and pulls his shirt off over his head.

He's barely dropped it onto the bench beside him before he's slammed into the lockers, hard. A lock digs into his stomach. The metal feels cold. There's a hand on his lower back. Instinctively, and he hates himself for this, he spreads his legs and waits for the hand to move lower.

“Who owned you?” a husky voice demands in his ear. He smells smoke.

“W, what?”

“You have the Imaginationland mark on your back,” the voice hisses. The handd presses harder against his back. “Who owned you?”

“I, I-” Tweek swallows. He can't breathe. It's like something is stuck in his throat. He makes a strangled sobbing noise.

“What are you doing to that kid?” another voice calls behind them.

“He's like half your size,” a third voice sounds angrier. “Leave him the fuck alone!”

“Shit.” The pressure is released. The hand is gone. Tweek stays against the lockers, shaking. “Kid, I'm sorry. I suck at this.”

A hand pulls at his shoulder, turning him. Tweek presses his side to the lockers and a figure appears next to him. It's the smoking boy. There's still a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

“I'm sorry, okay?” he apologizes. “Gary is usually the ones who deals with the kids.” The guy curses under his breath. “My name's Christophe and I'm part of this group of-” He stops mid-sentences and looks around them. Some of the other men are still watching them, looking like they're ready to attack this guy if he touches Tweek again. It makes Tweek feel slightly better. He thinks about the gun in his bag.

“I don't know what you want,” Tweek says, his voice shaky. “Please leave me alone.”

“I just want, oh fuck, I remember you,” the man, Christophe, looks stunned. His mouth slightly agape. Tweek certainly doesn't remember him. “April 2011. That's when we first found you on the forums. In the room with the little Christmas tree. You were wrapped in garland.”

Tweek fells his stomach turn. This man, this Christophe, he's one of them? One of the ones who downloaded those pictures of him off the internet? He thinks about the man in front of him masturbating to those pictures and coughs up a stream of vomit before he can help himself.

“Leave me alone,” he yells, wiping at his mouth. “Get away from me, you sick fuck!”

“No!” the man protests, grabbing at Tweek's wrist before he can get away. “You don't understand. I'm not one of them! I hunt them!”

Tweek tries to pull away, not hearing the words the man is saying. Or rather hearing them, but not processing them. He goes for his bag. Christophe, seeing that holding him isn't doing any good, lets him go. Tweek digs the gun out from the bag and points it at him. There's shouting.

Then the gun is on the floor and Christophe has him on his stomach, arms pinned behind his back.

“Listen to me,” he hisses into his ear. “I am not your enemy. I am part of a group of people who hunt down and kill those sick fucks. You have the mark of a widespread pedophile ring called the Citizens of Imaginationland tattooed on your back. Now I'm going to let you up, we're going to go to the juice bar, and you're going to tell me everything you can about what happened to you, got it?”

“Got it,” Tweek mumbles into the damp, dirty floor tiles.


	26. Craig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I couldn't make myself fully re-write this chapter. I just couldn't. The idea of doing so made me too depressed. I did edit it extensively, adding about one more full page overall by the time I was done. I still don't like this chapter. But I can't do anything else with this fic until this chapter is over with. So here it is. Mostly what I posted over a month ago, a little different. I'm not promising quick updates on this but I'm ready to start looking at it again.

“This is gay.”

Craig stares out the window, watching the assortment of bail bond and pawn shops roll by. Garish with their loud signs and barred windows. The sidewalks look cracked and dirty. But at least there is no snow.

“You're gay.”

He sighs and looks towards Tweek. He's not looking towards him, he's looking out the other window. His profile lit by the warm California sun. It makes Craig feel something warm and protective in his chest. Tweek needs to be in the sun. Needs to get rid of some of his lingering ghostly pallor. This trip will be good for him. Really, it will be.

“No, Kahl, you're gay!”

Another assortment of palm trees, gas stations, and fast-food joints. Another hobo begging on the street corner for change. Craig wonders vaguely if he was one of the ones they lured out of South Park years ago. He's holding up a small piece of cardboard claiming he's a Veteran. There's a wheelchair behind him, in the bushes, but the man is standing on the corner like there's not a thing wrong with him in the world.

“Cartman, we literally woke up to you fucking Butters into the mattress next to us. You are gay!”

Kyle's voice is shrill, echoing vaguely of his mother. Craig is tempted to tell him that, that he sounds like his mother, but Kyle never takes well to that particular accusation. But he's a momma's boy through and through. Craig was somewhat surprised when he didn't call him bubbeh as he fucked him into the mattress of his own bedroom. Or at least cry out a well-time “what what what!” when he saw Craig's circumcised dick for the first time.

“We're all gay, okay?” Stan interrupts, his voice echoing throughout the car like an angry father. He's hunched low over the steering wheel, as if being closer to the window will help him figure out where he's going. “We all grew up to be a bunch of cock-sucking homos. There? Now everyone shut up.”

“Gee, Stan, I'm bi,” Butters pipes up, his voice so much smaller and unsteady in comparison to Stan's wanna-be alpha male voice, “I've been with girls and everything.”

“That's because you'll fuck anybody that says a nice word to you,” Kyle insults the small blond. He's sitting in the passenger's seat in the front, arms folded across his chest in a way Craig recognizes as being angry but not wanting to say so. Because Stan should just know Kyle's angry, obviously. Craig feels slightly bad for Butters, he doesn't really deserve to be talked to like that but he's too damn tired to say anything. “For fuck's sake, you let Cartman fuck you. This morning. Three feet from where I was trying to sleep.”

“You're just jealous that Stan is losing interest in your disgusting Jew bush,” Cartman's voice comes from directly behind Craig. He swears he can smell his breath. It smells like pancakes which is ridiculous because they hadn't eaten breakfast. The thought of bushes makes him think of his own mother. Of the shit she went through because of this boy. God, he just wants to punch him in the fucking face. Tell him to shut the fuck up. He rubs at his arms instead, trying to misdirect some of his annoyance into his own skin. “Stan, do you get a bunch of nappy Jew ass hairs in your mouth every time you rim Kahl?”

“Not ass hairs,” Stan responds vaguely, turning the car slowly around a corner. Kyle slaps him on the arm and Stan cries out with an offended “Hey!”

“Can we just drop him off on the side of the road,” Craig pleads, far from the first time in the last twenty-four hours. A road trip with Eric Cartman is the definition of hell. But he won't start a fight. He wants this to be a good trip. Tweek needs a good trip. It's the first one he's had in a decade.

The decision to drive to California had been almost on-the-spot, thrown together last minute by Stan, Kyle, and Craig while at lunch, which had led to Craig of course bringing Tweek along. And once Tweek was on board he of course wanted to bring Butters, who would be back into school in a week. And of course Butters wanted to bring Cartman, who is, in fact, his boyfriend. Despite Cartman's current insistence on his non-homosexuality.

“Stan! You missed the turn!” Kyle cries out, his shrill voice cutting through Craig's skull. Why did he think this was a good idea again? The redhead sits forward in his seat, pointing and turning his head.

“No I didn't,” Stan snaps at his boyfriend. “That was Coral Cove, we're looking for Cove Corral.”

What the fuck kind of street is Cove Corral? Craig's imagining a bunch of little seahorses with bridles being herded in a tide pool. And, alright, that'd be kind of cute. Not that he'd admit having such a thought. Because his love for small cute things is supposed to be kept on the down low.

Speaking of small cute things. Craig glances back at Tweek beside him. He's pressed against the side of the minivan, eyes watching for his first sight of the ocean. Tweek has never seen the ocean. Craig's not sure if that side of the car is even where it will be visible from but he doesn't say anything. Doesn't want to disappoint him. He just reaches for Tweek's hand, taking it in his own. Tweek jumps for a second, distracted, then curls his fingers around Craig's.

He looks tired. It had been a long trip, nearly seventeen hours. They had left Cartman's house at three o'clock, after school was out for the day, and driven almost straight to their hotel from there. Still, it had been nearly eight in the morning by the time they were tucked into a bunch of cheap motel beds and pull outs. Now it's nearly one. Even passing out almost immediately they each had only gotten about four hours of sleep. Before being abruptly awaken by the sound of Butters being drilled into one of the aforementioned beds.

Which helps explain the tense atmosphere in Ms. Cartman's minivan. A car-full of overtired teenage boys does not make for the best company.

“Kyle, what the fuck kind of beach vacation is this? We've been driving like an hour,” Cartman complains as they take another turn.

“It's spring break,” Kyle fumes, turning to glare at the fat boy. “What did you expect? A nice hotel right on the beach for our eighty-dollar a night budget? And we've been driving for fifteen minutes, fatass.”

They do find the beach, eventually. It's crowded. Stan lets everyone else out by the entrance, Kyle opting to stay with him until he finds a parking spot. Everyone else unpacks the towels and bags from the car, Cartman bringing along an entire cooler of snacks and drinks. At least he's offered to share with them. Maybe Butters has been a somewhat positive influence on him. He never would've shared his food before.

“Should we find a spot?” Butters asks, looking down the long expanse of tan sand to each side. It's crowded but there are plenty of places to set up camp. The air smells odd. Craig's been to the ocean before, he recognizes the smell, but it's one of those scents you can't recall until you encounter it again. Seaweed and salt water and sand, sprinkled with the summer-like aroma of suntan lotion.

“No,” Tweek shakes his head. “They might not be able to find us. Let's wait for them to come back.”

“Well you fags can sit here and wait for the other fags to return,” Cartman announces. “But we're getting ice cream. Come on, Butters.” Cartman starts towards a nearby ice cream stand, a weathered looking building with a faded sign displaying different flavors. Butters follows him obediently, the floppy rim of his straw hat bouncing with each step. Craig can't decide if he looks like a farmer or a teen girl.

“Do you want some ice cream?” Craig offers, looking at Tweek. Tweek responds with a wide yawn, covering his mouth as it apparently hits from no where.

“No, I'm good,” he says.

“Well if you're su-” Craig's words are cut off by a smaller yawn than Tweek's. “Great, now you've got me doing it.”

“Sorry,” Tweek smiles sheepishly. His eyes shine with joy. He looks happy. Away from the snow, away from South Park, away from Frederick Johnson. The pervert had called for Tweek a few days ago. His mother had answered the phone, recognized the voice from the television, and had called Craig at school immediately after chewing the man out. Both Craig and Tweek have been on edge ever since.

“Come here,” Craig says, trying to ignore the mental image of a young Tweek cowering in a dark basement. He wants to appreciate the light and heat. “You're so pale. Let me get some sunscreen on you before you turn red.”

Craig digs the sunscreen out from his own backpack. It's SP50, stronger than the stuff he uses. His mother had picked it up awhile back, when Tweek had used up the rest of the SP15 the rest of his family uses. Tweek pulls his shirt off over his head and Craig rubs it onto his back and shoulders for him. The blond takes the bottle away and continues on the body parts he can reach. The sunscreen makes him shine in the warm sunlight. It occurs to Craig this is probably the first time Tweek has been outside on an actual warm, sunny day in years. Despite everything they've gone through, Tweek's only been back in his arms for half a year.

“The snow will be melting back home soon,” he tells Tweek, kicking at the sand. Some of it falls over Tweek's foot, disappearing between his toes. They're so short and stubby. Tricia calls his own toes “cigarette toes” and his father claims he could climb a tree like a monkey with them. Tweek's look vulnerable in comparison, like tiny little clams. “We should go kayaking.”

“Alright,” Tweek agrees, voice unusually calm. “It'll be good for my upper body strength.”

Craig takes the lotion from his boyfriend's hands and wraps his arms around him from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. He smells like the sunscreen. It reminds him of happier times. Carefree summer days, barbecues, fishing and horseshoes.

“You and your sudden gym obsession,” Craig chuckles. “Don't suddenly get all super buff. I like being able to fit my arms around you.”

“I don't think it's going to be a problem,” Tweek replies, rolling his eyes. They seem bluer here, with the blue sky above and the blue ocean behind him. Craig can't tell which shade he's closer to. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps. “I'm not trying to bulk up. I'm just trying to get in shape.”

“Well, you did get yourself a personal trainer,” Craig reminds him, his voice dropping. He hates how he's felt since Tweek has informed him about this mystery man from the gym. It had been so casual, the way he mentioned it, that it had seemed forced. Just an “Oh, by the way Craig, I'm letting this guy at the gym touch my body all over as he positions me for weightlifting. No big deal.”

“He's not my personal trainer,” Tweek insists, “He's just in my kickboxing class and is helping me some on the side since we're at the gym at the same time every day. He spots for me, I spot for him.”

“Right,” Craig says. He releases Tweek, starting to feel uncomfortable. This isn't the first time they've argued over this matter. Well, maybe argue isn't the correct term. But he's been keeping an eye on Tweek's phone tracker and unless they're fucking in the gym's locker room at eleven in the morning everything seems legit. But what kind of man goes to the gym every day? What kind of man does kickboxing? Well his boyfriend, but that's different.

“Craig, I told you-”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I'm sorry. I trust you, I swear, I'm just jealous.”

Possessive might be a better term for it. But that sound worse. Jealous is okay. Jealousy is normal in any relationship. And he, if anybody, has the right to feel jealous over his boyfriend. But he doesn't say that aloud. They want to move on from that.

“I'll set up a time for you to meet him,” Tweek promises, nuzzling his head against Craig's like a puppy wanting attention. “Soon, I promise.” Craig puts his hand around his boyfriend, touching the small of his back with his hand. He feels hot in the sun.

Craig isn't sure if he wants to meet this man. Tweek says he teaches survivalist classes somewhere up in the mountains and when Craig had asked his boyfriend if this man was attractive he hadn't responded by saying he was unattractive, exactly. But he knows he has to trust Tweek to a degree as well. What kind of relationship can they have if it's built on distrust? But it's hard, given their history. He wants to trust him, he really does, but he's like a drug addict. He needs a sponsor to keep him on track.

“They're not back yet?” Butters ask, returning to Tweek's side with an ice cream cone in one hand. One scoop in a sugar cone, it looks like cotton candy flavored. Cartman's ice cream is piled high on a waffle cone.

“It's pretty crowded,” Craig replies, eyeing the enormous stack of ice cream. He spots at least three different flavors in there. “They might take awhile just to reach us when they finally somewhere to park.” He sits down on the curb of the sidewalk to wait, Tweek joining him at his side.

It takes about ten more minutes before Stan and Kyle make an appearance, Stan carrying their backpack full of stuff while Kyle clutches a couple of fluffy beach towels in his arms.

“About time,” Cartman grouses. He grabs one side of the cooler and Stan grabs the other side without being asked to.

“It's his cooler,” Kyle protests, still surly from everything that's happened over the last day. “Let him carry it.”

“Dude, let it go,” Stan insists. Craig can sense that Kyle's harping is starting to grate on him. They can all use a nap. They're like a bunch of overtired pre-schoolers.

Stan and Butters head towards the water as soon as they find a spot to set up, Butters sprinting ahead in a pair of unconventionally short swim trunks. Craig thinks they may be European. Or maybe they're for women. Craig would bet his money that Butters own a male romper. He kicks up sand behind him as he runs.

There's a canopy to help keep the sun off them and with the breeze off the water it's comfortable in the shade, despite how the sand burns Craig's feet when he walks across it. He should've brought sandals. He helps set it up with Kyle as Cartman sits on top of his cooler, eating a sandwich.

“Do you want to go in?” he asks Tweek afterwards, pointing out at the crashing waves on shore. There are a bunch of children playing in the sand near the waves but not many people are submerged more than a couple feet out into the water. They seem to be staying where they can stand. Stan is already up to his knees in the waves but Butters hangs back, his arms wrapped around himself. Just his feed are wet. The little short shorts are flattering. Craig tries not to stare.

“Not yet,” Tweek shakes his head, eyes trained on the shoreline. Craig wonders if he's staring at Butters as well. Wonders if he should feel jealous. Tweek turns his eyes back towards his boyfriend. “I just want to warm up and enjoy being outside.”

Cartman and Kyle are both arguing inside the canopy, something about Kyle bursting into flame in direct contact with the sun. Craig leads Tweek a few feet from their shelter and they spread out their towels on the hot sand. They're matching towels from Hawaii, his aunt had brought them back a few years ago when they had gone to Maui on vacation. They look new, his mother only lets them use them when they go to the beach or Token's swimming pool. Tweek is short enough his legs lay entirely on the towel but Craig's own feet lay on the sand, along with an inch of his knobby ankles.

He's brought a book but he only makes it a few pages in before he's blinking sleepily at the sun. He glances toward Tweek and sees his eyes closed, blond eyelashes glowing gold in the sunlight. His chest rises and falls in a deep, steady motion. It's difficult to tell but he may be asleep. Craig sets his own book down between their towels and closes his eyes. The sun is directly overhead and he can see the pink glow of his own eyelids. He grabs for his shirt at his side and lays it over his face, blocking the brightness.

When he comes to Tweek is gone and there's sweat beading on his forehead. He wipes at it with the back of his hand, the sunscreen on his skin stinging his eyes. He pulls himself up sleepily, trying to gauge how much time has passed by the position of the sun. He feels like he slept both too long and not long enough. His mouth feels sticky and tastes sour. When he makes his way to the canopy he finds Stan and Kyle inside, drinking bottles of sand-dusted water and eating sandwiches. Kyle's skin already looks pink.

“You look hot,” Kyle observes, digging into the cooler. Craig can hear the ice clinking in half-melted water. He holds out a clear, shimmering bottle to Craig. It's a scene right out of a Fiji commercial. He accepts in gratefully, sitting on the sand by Stan's feet and chugging the water.

“Where'd those three go?”

“They're just swimming,” Stan tells him. He presses his feet flat against Craig's lower back. He can feel his toenails poking at him. “Don't worry, Cartman's fat enough to be used as a flotation device for an entire cruise ship.”

“He seems to be doing better,” Kyle observes, not needing to point out that the “he” that he's talking about is not Cartman. “He's been talking more.”

“He is doing better,” Craig confirms, crushing the empty water bottle in his fist. It crinkles pleasantly, some drops of water spraying onto his legs. It's shocking but feels good. Makes him want to submerge his body into fresh, cool water. “He's been training with this guy at the gym. Christophe something. I think the exercise is making him feel more confident with himself. It was his shrink's idea. I mean, your mother's, Stan.”

“Christophe?” Kyle asks, furrowing his eyebrows. “I wonder...No, it couldn't be.”

“What are you mumbling about?”

“We knew a Christophe when we were kids,” Kyle explains, pointing at Stan. “This French kid. He used to play mercenary. I think he moved away or something.”

“Kyle had a crush on him,” Stan whispers loudly towards Craig.

“I did not!”

“You totally did, dude,” Stan insists. “You used to look at him like he was an ice cream sundae covered in whipped cream and caramel. Why do you think I chose to take French class in seventh grade instead of Spanish?”

“You didn't!” Kyle sounds aghast. Stan had nearly failed French that first year and ended up switching to Spanish the second year. It came a lot easier, mostly because he had Kyle there to tutor him on it.

“Well you never looked at me like I was an ice cream sundae.” Stan pouts.  
“Of course not,” Kyle smiles, “Ice cream sundaes are only temporary. You're more like a favorite book. Always there to read and reread and you keep getting better over time. Even if your pages do start to fray and the spine starts to break.”

“So you'll be good with me still when I'm wrinkly and in a wheelchair, got it.”

Kyle hits Stan on the arm then leans over to kiss him. Craig takes this as his cue to toss his water bottle into the corner of the canopy and go find his boyfriend. The sand is still hot under his feet and he rushes to the shore where the sand is cooler. He catches sight of Butters and Cartman easily enough, spotting Cartman in the ocean is like spotting a humpback whale come up for air, but at first he sees no sign of Tweek. Then he finally catches sight of him way out in the water on his own, much further out than any of the other swimmers. Craig steps into the water, feeling just a few inches of water around his feet before the tide pulls the water back out to sea. He takes a few steps further out and the waves return, flowing up to his knees. It's colder than he thought it'd be and he grits his teeth in shock.

It doesn't take long for his body to adjust though. Maybe it just feels colder because he's so overheated. He walks further out until he's nearly chest-level then he dives in, feeling the rush of cold water over his head as an electric shock to his brain, and starts paddling out towards Tweek.

His boyfriend is shivering in the water, his lips turning just a hint toward blue. His hair looks darker from the water and hangs around his face in messy clumps. He looks like the love interest from some cheese 90's rom com, shivering in the rain as they wait for their one true love to reach them below the Eiffel Tower. Or wherever 90s rom coms usually had their climax.

“Well, how do you like the ocean?” Craig calls out over the sound of waves breaking on the shore.

“It's cold,” Tweek calls back, “And salty. It stings my nose.”

“Then don't snort it,” Craig grins at him. He swims closer to him, their legs brush somewhere below them. Some seaweed is tangled around Craig's bicep. He tries to pull it off. “Why are you out here by yourself?”

“I can't go in,” Tweek admits. His lips are trembling. They look sore. Maybe from the salt. Craig wants to kiss them but he's not close enough. If he tried to get close they might bump heads. “I'm scared.”

“Scared?” Craig glances back at the shore, expecting to see a great white shark swimming nearby. Just waves and sand and people. Unless the shark is hiding. Maybe he saw a stingray or a jellyfish.

“There were all these kids,” Tweek explains, his body shivering so hard his voice comes out vibrating, like he's talking through a spinning fan. “Little boys. Everywhere I looked I saw them playing in the sand or riding on boogie boards.”

“Why's that scary?” Craig asks, confused. Like, yeah, kids can be assholes sometimes, but there's no reason to be scared of them. But these are California kids. Maybe they're all in gangs.

“Well, what if one of their mothers saw me looking at them?” Tweek swallows. He dips under the water for a second, not very buoyant evidently, and kicks harder to keep himself afloat. “What if they thought I was like him?”  
“You were afraid they would think you were a child molester?”

“Maybe,” Tweek confesses. He kicks his feet to one side now, and paddles a few feet away from Craig. “Do you know you're way more likely to be an abuser if you were abused yourself?”

Craig is confused for a moment then feels a surge of something akin to panic shoot through his body. He can't possibly be saying what he thinks he's saying.  
“Tweek,” he whispers, his voice low despite the distance between them and any other beachgoers. He edges closer to Tweek, trying not to feel hurt when Tweek backs away to keep their distance. “Are you saying you're afraid you're going to become a pedophile? Are you attracted to those boys?”

“No!” Tweek blurts out, eye wide. His whites have gone pink. How long has he been out here? How long was Craig asleep for? “I mean, I don't think so. But I've had sex with a lot of guys I wasn't attracted to. I don't know why I slept with them so how can I know I won't do something with a kid next?”

“Because you're not a monster,” Craig says softly. He paddles with his feet as he reaches out to brush some wet strands of hair from his boyfriend's eyes. Tweek lets him, but his jaw is clenched defiantly, like he's ready to make a run for it if he attacks. “And don't worry, nobody will think you're perving on some kid just because you glance at them making a sandcastle for a second.”

“He wanted me to do it,” Tweek insists, shaking his head away from Craig's touch. “If that kid hadn't screamed I might be locked in that basement right now, doing things to him. I used to think about it. Try to train myself to want to do it, you know? Because Ghost wanted me to do and he always got what he wanted.”

“You're not with him,” Craig soothes, wishing he could hold the boy paddling in the water in front of him. They'd both sink if he tried. “He can't make you do it. You have no reason to do it.”

“But I was able to make myself hard thinking about it,” Tweek said, his voice going hoarse with emotion. “I'd practice thinking about it when he was doing it to me. I'd pretend he was me and I was this new kid and I'd think of how good it'd feel around my dick and, and I'd cum.”

“You were trying to condition yourself for a pervert,” Craig insists, trying to hold back his revulsion. He doesn't like to think about what that man did to Tweek. And he really doesn't want to think about Tweek enjoying anything he did to him. “The fact you had to force yourself to get used to the idea already says enough. You wouldn't have had to force yourself to do that if you were a pedophile.”

“But what if I did too good a job?”

“Tweek, honey,” Craig sighs, feeling his own fingers already starting to turn number with the cold, “When you were getting that out of your system, were you going to the playground? No. You were going to that bathhouse with a bunch of old guys. If anything, I think you have the opposite issue.”

“Maybe I'm just sexually broken,” Tweek concedes, looking defeated. The muscles on his neck look tense. It looks painful.

“I think you're just tired,” Craig tells him. “We're all tired. Why don't we go back to the hotel and get some sleep?”  
“We're on vacation,” Tweek protests, glancing back toward the shore. Craig thinks he's looking for Cartman and Butters but they're not there any longer.

“And we'll still be on vacation tomorrow,” Craig replies, pressing his legs in between Tweek's. They feel smooth against his own, the hair of his legs much softer and fine than Craig's own thick black curls. “Come on, I'll pay for the Lyft.”

“I don't want to go,” Tweek insists, shaking his head. Droplets of water fall onto Craig's face. Some lands on his lips. They taste like salt. “I want to stay at the beach.”

“Then let's go lay in the shade at least, you look like you're freezing anyway. We'll take a nap in the shade.”

Tweek consents to at least getting out of the water and they head back to shore, riding the waves in until they have to run onto the land to avoid getting hit in the back by a wall of salt water. Butters and Cartman aren't in the canopy and Kyle is taking off his shirt when they arrive.

“We're going in,” Kyle explains, reaching for the sunscreen. “Stan made us wait.”

“You can't go swimming until a half hour after you eat,” Stan argues, snatching the sunscreen from his boyfriend's hand. Craig swears they've done nothing but argue on this trip. Still, Kyle turns around without needing to be told and Stan is thorough and gentle when he rubs Kyle's back with the lotion. He's using SP50 as well.

“That's an urban legend parents made up so they could get a break from watching their kid swim,” Kyle informs him, his head turned down so Stan can get the back of his neck. He turns to him afterwards and starts tugging at Stan's tan ktop. “Come on, take off your shirt. I want everyone to be jealous of my hot boyfriend with his six pack.”

“It's more like a four pack,” Stan says. “At best.”

“Whatever.”

Craig grabs their towels from the sand, they're hot from lying under the sun, and spreads them out in the makeshift shelter. The warmth of the cloth feels good against his goosebumped skin. He lays on his side and throws his arm over Tweek's hip, spooning him. He's already drying in the heat but his shorts are soaking wet, leaking against Craig's crotch. It's not the coziest feeling in the world. But Tweek still dozes off once he lays his head down on Craig's backpack, clearly exhausted. Craig starts awake what feels like only a few minutes later, surprised to find himself hard and grinding against Tweek in his sleep. He feels tender down there from the dampness, the salt water and sand chafing, and reaches down to adjust himself before dozing off again.

Honestly, they're all exhausted. All six of them take turns throughout the day swimming, sleeping, and eating. By the time the sun goes down Cartman's cooler is empty and he's complaining he wants some real food. And none of that hippie kale and avocado shit.

They don't have the best food budget, there's already six of them sharing a two bed motel room with a pull-out sofa, so they find a place near the beach that has a sale on tacos for $1.25 each. As long as you're willing to buy a dozen or more.

“It's spring break,” Cartman announces after shoving seven tacos down his throat. “I bet we can find a killer party at one of the rental places along the beach.”

“Are you an idiot?” Kyle asks, taking a break fromdaintily eating his third taco. “You can't just crash some college party.”

“Dude, it might be pretty fun,” Stan suggests, his voice coaxing. The way he always speaks to Kyle when he's afraid of pissing him off. “There will probably be a bonfire. Maybe somebody will have a guitar I can borrow.”

“You and your fascination with singing by bonfires,” Kyle teases, but he's smiling anyway. Craig know he's already given in. And Butters is a non-issue, he follows Cartman around like a puppy.

“Well you guys can get your underage asses thrown in jail,” Craig announces, “Tweek and I are heading back to the room.”

“We are?” Tweek asks.

“They have HBO,” Craig responds. He doesn't want Tweek exposed to beer and drugs and who know what else at this place. They're here for a wholesome beach vacation, not a drug-fueled frat party. “Free HBO, babe.”

“I guess we are,” Tweek shrugs, giving Butters an apologetic looks. The other blond looks sad but then Cartman pulls him close with a sudden sweep of his arm and he laughs, accepting the kiss offered to him. Craig feels like throwing up.

They take the car back to the hotel with the agreement the other four, who planned on drinking if they were able to find their mythical beach party, take the safer route of pooling their funds for a Lyft, or a taxi, or taking the damn bus if they wanted the trip to take five hours instead of fifteen minutes. Tweek is sleepy and lays against Craig's arm on the trip back to the motel. Craig leaves him to doze on one of the beds as he jumps in the shower, rinsing off salt water and dislodging sand from places he had no idea sand could reach. Tweek is sitting up when he leaves the bathroom but is blinking at the television as if he isn't really seeing it. He's watching Bee Movie, for some God damn reason.

“Is there any hot water left?” he asks, looking at Craig with blurry eyes. They look pink still from the salt water.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Craig nods towards the open door. He's using one of the fluffy white towels in his hair, vigorously rubbing at his head to dry his black locks. Despite the cheapness of the hotel the towels feel fluffy and soft. He wonders why he's heard about people stealing them. How do you steal a towel without them noticing? They must keep a count on them.

Tweek stumbles into the bathroom, scratching at his head. He probably has sand in his hair. Craig did too. He listens to the sound of the water running through the pipes, the tell-tale splash of falling droplets on tile. Then he switches through the channels, trying to find something to watch. Apparently Bee Movie was showing on HBO, for fuck's sake. He stops back on HBO anyway, there's nothing better to watch, and finishes the end of the movie. Ace Ventura: Pet Detective comes on next. Is this really what people pay extra money to watch? He leaves it on nonetheless.

“This is an old movie,” Tweek observes fifteen minutes later when he joins him on the bed. He's wearing a white terrycloth robe. Craig wonders where he found it. One of the closets, probably? Unless he missed it hanging on the back of the bathroom door or something.

“Not that old,” Craig responds because the 90's weren't that long ago. He watches a lot of old Kubrick and Hitchcock films. They're a lot older.

“Pretty old,” Tweek insists.

He's hot and damp and smells like eucalyptus. Something about that is irresistible and it's not long before Craig has him on his back, untying the robe's belt and parting the piece of clothing like he's unwrapping a present. He's hot and damp inside like a dumpling. He bends his head to see if he tastes as good as he smells.

“What if they come back soon?” the blond tries to protest.

“From a party with alcohol?” Craig smirks. “Unlikely. Relax. Don't you want to have cheap motel sex?”

“Obviously,” Tweek replies, pushing his hips up against Craig's own so he can feel his hardness. “Just keep an ear out, just in case.”

Craig promises he will. But he does a really shitty job of it. To be fair, he is pretty busy when Butters walks in. Tweek is feeling flexible and limber from the day out in the sun and Craig has his legs pushed up to his ears, feet swaying in the air, as he fucks him as deeply as he can. His tongue is in Tweek's mouth, muffling the little moans he makes, and the flimsy bed bangs unsteadily against the paper-thin walls. If there is somebody in the room next to them Craig doesn't feel sorry for them because when he pulls back to breathe, Tweek's mews of pleasure nearly make him cum. Anybody should feel privileged to hear those beautiful sounds emitting from his boyfriend.

“Oh geez!” Butters voice startles them both as he cries out in shock at the sight laid out on the bed before him. “I'm sorry! Geez!”

Tweek shoves Craig off him with more upper body strength than Craig thought the small blond possessed and hurried to cover himself with a blanket. Craig is left fully exposed on the other hand, his dick still hard and wet with lube.

“I swear I wasn't coming back to peep in on you two!” Butters cries out, his back turned to them.

“It's our fault,” Tweek hurries out. “We shouldn't be having sex in a joint room.”

“Well, Eric and I did that earlier,” Butters breathes. “I didn't want to but he said you were all too tired to wake up anyway and, and, I'm such an idiot!”

Craig is surprised, and uncomfortable, when the blond in the doorway suddenly bursts out into tears. He doesn't deal well with people crying, except for Tweek of course. Otherwise his brain just tends to shut down and go into fight or flight mode. Right now he's leaning towards flight. Tweek drags the blankets with him across the room, leaving Craig even more exposed, and he reaches for Tweek's discarded robe. Tweek's asking Butters questions that Craig doesn't quite catch, just recognizing the tone of voice.

“We got into a fight!” Butters wails, following Tweek back to the couch, which is technically supposed to be Craig and Tweek's bed. “He wanted me to twerk in front of a bunch of strangers and I told him no! That's demeaning!”

“It is,” Tweek agrees, rubbing the other blond's back. “You shouldn't have to do what you don't want to do.”

“I don't mind twerking in front of him,” Butters sniffs, and Craig absolutely hates that he now has the image of Butters twerking inside of his head. “Because that's just between me and him, but he might as well have asked me to give him a blow job in front of them all!”

“That's a bit extreme, isn't it?” Craig asks dryly. Twerking isn't exactly on the same level as oral sex. He wonders if Tweek could twerk and tries to imagine it. He doesn't have a bubble butt like Butters', it's much too small for a decent twerk. Not that it isn't perfect, because it certainly is.

Tweek shoots him a glare. Craig puts his hands up defensively and edges his way towards the bathroom. He's already taken one shower but his dick is probably sticky enough to justify a second one. A nice hot, long shower away from all the drama.

The two blonds are on the other bed when he finally ventures out nearly an hour later, his hair dry from the hair dryer. He doesn't usually use a hair dryer but it helped eat up time. They're watching Spongebob Squarepants from the look of it, Butters still sniffling with a wet face.

“Butters is going to share our bed tonight,” Tweek tells him. “Unless you want to share with Cartman?”

Well, there's worse things than sharing a bed with two cute blonds. And Butters is pretty damn cuddly in his sleep.


End file.
